UC-NRLF 


PRIVATE    LIBRARY 
OF  -( 

CHARLES  A.  KOFOip.  ^ 

No.?.  5.7  Cost.CTs. 


GIFT   OF 


. } 


BRIEF    BIOGRAPHIES 


BT 


SAMUEL    SMILES 


New    York 

AMERICAN    BOOK    EXCHANGE 

76-4    Broadway 

1881 


e^ 


^\o^ 


NOTE. 

The  first  edition  of  this  work  appeared  in  1860;  and  as  the  bio- 
graphical sketches  of  persons  then  living  have  of  course  become 
incomplete  and  inadequate,  they  have  been  omitted  in  the  present 
issue. 


CONTENTS 


PAGS 

Jamus  Watt    ....•..••  6 

RoBEET  Stephenson   .•«.'...•  41 

Db.  Abnold •   .   •   •  62 

Hugh  Milleb         .        .        «        .        •        .        •        «        •  61 

Francis  Jeffeey         ..••••«.•  73 
EbENEZEE  ELIilOTT             .          .          ,          ,          .          .       ■  •          .81 

Geobge  Boeeow          , 87 

John  J^mes  Audubon    ,..•••..  98 

William  Macgillivbat      •••.,..  115 

John  Steeling        ..••••••,  124 

Leigh  Hunt        .        .        ,        .        .        •        •        •      .  •  134 

Haetley  Coleeidge       •••«••••  144 

Db.  Kttto    ...;.••...  151 

Edqae  Allan  Pok          ...•••..  157 

Theodoee  Hook" 165 

Db.  Andeew  Combs        . 178 

Robeet  Nicoll •        •        .  186 

Saeah  Maegaeet  Fulleb 196 

Saeah  Maetin     ...,.•..,  209 


247487 


JAMES  WATT. 


THE  inventor  of  the  steam-engine,  now  so  extensively  applied 
to  production  in  all  the  arts  of  industry,  is  entitled  to  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men  who  has  ever 
lived.  Steam  is  the  very  Hercules  of  modern  mythology.  In  the 
manufactures  of  Great  Britain  alone,  the  power  which  it  exercises  is 
estimated  to  be  equal  to  the  manual  labor  of  four  hundred  millions 
of  men,  or  more  than  double  the  number  of  males  supposed  to 
inhabit  the  globe.  Steam  has  become  the  universal  lord.  It  impels 
ships  in  everj'  sea,  and  drags  tram-loads  of  passengers  and  mer- 
chandise in  all  lands.  It  pumps  water,  drives  mills,  hammers  iron, 
prints  books  and  newspapers,  and  works  in  a  thousand  ways  with 
an  arm  that  never  tires.  All  this  marvelous  and  indescribable 
power  has  flowed  from  the  invention  of  one  man,  the  subject  of  the 
following  memoir. 

James  Watt  was  born  at  Greenock  on  the  Clyde,  on  the  19th  of 
January,  1736.  His  parents  were  of  the  middle  class, — honest, 
industrious  people,  with  a  character  for  probity  which  had  de- 
scended to  them  from  their  "  forbears,"  and  was  the  proudest  inher- 
itance of  the  family.  James  Watt  was  thus  emphatically  well-born. 
His  grandfather  was  a  teacher  of  navigation  and  mathematics  in  the 
village  of  Cartsdyke,  now  part  of  Greenock,  and  dignified  himself 
with  the  name  of  "  Professor."  But  as  Oartsdyke  was  as  yet  only  a 
humble  collection  of  thatched  hovels,  and  the  shipping  of  the  Clyde 
was  confined  principally  to  fishing-boats,  the  probability  is,  that  his 
lessons  in  navigation  were  of  a  very  humble  order.  He  was,  how- 
ever, a  dignitary  of  the  place,  being  Bailie  of  the  Barony,  as  well  as 
one^f  the  parish  elders.  His  son,  James  Watt,  the  father  of  the 
engineer,  settled  at  Greenock  as  a  carpenter  and  builder.  Greenock 
was  then  little  better  than  a  fishing-village,  consisting  of  a  single 
row  of  thatched  cottages  lying  parallel  with  the  sandy  beach  of  the 


6  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Frith  of  Clyde.  The  baautifnl  chore,  broken  by  the  long,  narrow 
sea-lochs  running  far  away  among  the  Argyleshire  hills,  and  now 
fringed  with  villages,  villas,  and  mansions,  was  then  as  lonely  as 
Glencoe  ;  and  the  waters  of  the  Frith,  now  daily  plashed  by  the 
paddles  of  almost  innumerable  Clyde  steamers,  were  as  yet  undis- 
turbed, save  by  the  passing  of  an  occasional  Highland  cobble.  The 
prosperity  of  Greenock  was  greatly  promoted  by  Sir  John  Shaw, 
the  feudal  superior,  who  succeeded  in  obtaining  from  the  British 
Parliament,  what  the  Scottish  Parliament  previous  to  the  Union  had 
refused,  the  privilege  of  constructing  a  harbor.  Ships  began  after 
1740  to  frequent  the  pier,  and  then  Mr.  Watt  added  ship-carpen- 
tering and  dealing  in  ships'  stores  to  his  other  pursuits.  He  him- 
self held  shares  in  ships,  and  engaged  in  several  foreign  mercantile 
ventures,  some  of  which  turned  out  ill,  and  involved  him  in  embar- 
rassments. A  great  deal  of  miscellaneous  work  was  executed  on 
his  premises, — household  furniture  and  ship's  carpentry, — chairs 
and  tables,  figure-heads  and  capstans,  blocks,  pumps,  gun-carriages, 
and  dead-eyes.  The  first  crane  erected  on  the  Grenock  pier,  for  tho 
convenience  of  the  Virginia  tobacco-shops,  was  supplied  from  his 
stores.  He  even  undertook  to  repair  ships*  compasses,  as  well  as 
the  commoner  sort  of  nautical  instruments  then  in  use.  These  mr.  l- 
tifarious  occupations  were  the  result  of  the  smallness  of  the  placo, 
while  the  business  of  a  single  calling  w^as  yet  too  limited  to  yield  u 
competence.  That  Mr.  Watt  was  a  man  of  rej^ute  in  his  locality 
is  shown  by  his  having  been  elected  one  of  the  trustees  to  manage 
the  funds  of  the  borough  in  1741,  when  Sir  John  Shaw  divested 
himself  of  his  feudal  rights,  and  made  them  over  to  the  inhabitants. 
Mr.  Watt  subsequently  held  office  as  town-treasurer,  and  as  a  bailie 
or  magistrate. 

Agnes  Muirhead,  the  bailie's  wife,  and  the  mother  of  James  Watt, 
was  long  remembered  in  the  place  as  an  intelligent  woman,  bounti- 
fully gifted  with  graces  of  person  as  well  as  of  mind  and  heart.  She 
was  of  a  somewhat  dignified  appearance  ;  and  it  was  said  that  she 
aifected  a  superior  style  of  living  to  her  neighbors.  One  of  these, 
long  after,  spoke  of  her  as  **a  braw,  braw  woman,  none  like  her 
nowadays,"  and  commented  on  the  extraordinary  fact  of  her  having 
on  one  occasion  no  fewer  than  **two  lighted  candles  on  the  table  at 
the  same  time  "  !  The  bailie's  braw  wife  was,  perhaps,  the  only  lady 
in  Greenock  who  then  dressed  a-la-mode~the  petticoat  worn  over  a 
hoop,  and  curiously  tucked  up  behind,  with  a  towering  head-dress 
over  ber  powdered  hair.  This  pretentious  dame,  as  she  appeared, 
probably  did  no  more  than  adapt  her  mode  of  living  to  Mr.  Watt's 
circumstances,  which  seem  to  have  enabled  him  to  adopt  a  more 
generous  style  than  was  usual  in  small  Scottish  towns,  where  the 
people  were  for  the  most  part  very  j^oor,  and  accustomed  to  slender 
fare. 

From  childhood,  James  Watt  was  of  an  extremely  fragile  constitu- 


JAMES  WATT,  7 

tion,  requiring  the  tenderest  nurture.  Unable  to  join  in  the  rude 
play  of  healthy  children,  and  confined  almost  entirely  to  the  house, 
he  acquired  a  shrinking  sensitiveness  which  little  fitted  him  for  the 
rough  battle  of  life ;  and  when  he  was  sent  to  the  town  school  it 
caused  him  many  painful  trials.  His  mother  had  already  taught 
him  reading,  and  his  father  a  little  writing  and  arithmetic.  His 
very  sports  proved  lessons  to  him.  His  mother,  to  amuse  him, 
encouraged  him  to  draw  with  a  pencil  upon  paper,  or  with 
chalk  upon  the  floor,  and  he  was  supplied  with  a  tew  tools  from 
the  carpenter's  shop,  which  he  soon  learned  to  handle  with  con- 
siderable expertness.  The  mechanical  dexterity  he  acquired  was 
the  foundation  upon  which  he  built  the  speculations  to  which 
he  owes  his  glory,  nor  without  this  manual  training  is  there  the  least 
likelihood  that  he  would  have  become  the  improver  and  almost  the 
creator  of  the  steam-engine.  Mrs.  Watt  exercised  an  influence  no 
less  beneficial  on  the  formation  of  his  moral  character  ;  her  gentle 
nature,  strong  good  sense,  and  earnest,  unobtrusive  piety,  strongly 
impressing  themselves  upon  his  young  mind  and  heart.  Nor  w^ero 
his  parents  without  their  reward  ;  for  as  he  grew  up  to  manhood  he 
repaid  their  anxious  care  with  warm  aifection.  Mrs.  Watt  was  accus- 
tomed to  say  that  the  loss  of  her  only  daughter,  which  she  had  felt 
so  severely,  had  been  fully  made  up  to  her  by  the  dutiful  attentions 
of  her  son. 

From  an  early  period  he  was  subject  to  violent  headaches,  which 
confined  him  to  his  room  for  weeks  together.  It  is  in  such  casen  as 
his  that  indications  of  precocity  are  generally  observed,  and  parents 
would  be  less  pleased  at  their  appearance  did  they  know  that  they  are 
generally  the  symptoms  of  disease.  Several  remarkable  instances 
of  this  precocity  are  related  of  Watt.  On  one  occasion,  when  he 
was  bending  over  a  marble  hearth,  with  a  piece  of  chalk  in  his 
hand,  a  friend  of  his  father  said,  *' You  ought  to  send  that  boy  to  a 
public  school,  and  not  allow  him  to  trifle  away  his  time  at  home." 
**  Look  how  my  child  is  occupied,"  replied  the  father,  *' before  you 
condemn  him."  Though  only  six  years  of  age,  he  was  trying  to 
solve  a  problem  in  geometry.  On  another  occasion,  he  was  reproved 
by  Mrs.  Muirhead,  his  aunt,  for  his  indolence  at  the  tea-table. 
**  James  Watt,"  said  the  worthy  lady,  **I  never  sav/  such  an  idle  boy 
as  you  are  ;  take  a  book,  or  employ  yourself  usefully  ;  for  the  last 
hour  you  have  not  spoken  one  word,  but  taken  off  the  lid  of  that 
kettle  and  put  it  on  again,  holding  now  a  cup,  and  now  a  silver 
spoon,  over  the  steam,  watching  how  it  rises  from  the  spout,  catching 
and  counting  the  drops  it  falls  into  ;  are  you  not  ashamed  of 
spending  your  time  in  that  way  ?"  In  the  view  of  M.  Arago,  "the 
little  James  before  the  tea-kettle  becomes  the  mighty  engineer 
preparing  the  discoveries  which  were  to  immortalize  him."  In  our 
opinion,  the  judgment  of  tho  aunt  was  the  truest.  There  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  the  mind  of  little  James  was  occupied  with 


8  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

philosophical  considerations  on  the  condensation  of  steam.  This  is 
an  after-thought  borrowed  from  his  subsequent  discoveries.  Nothing 
is  commoner  than  for  children  to  be  amused  with  such  phenomena, 
in  the  same  way  that  they  will  form  air-bubbles  in  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
watch  them  sailing  over  the  surface  till  they  burst ;  and  the  proba- 
bility is  that  little  James  was  quite  as  idle  as  he  seemed. 

At  school,  where  a  parrot-power  of  learning  what  is  set  down  in 
the  lesson-book  is  the  chief  element  of  success,  "Watt's  independent 
observation  and  reflection  did  not  enable  him  to  distinguish  him- 
Kelf,  and  he  was  even  considered  dull  and  backward  for  his  age. — 
He  shone  as  little  in  the  playground  as  in  the  class.  The  timid  and 
sensitive  boy  found  himself  completely  out  of  place  in  the  midst  of 
the  boisterous  juvenile  republic.  Against  the  tyranny  of  the  elders 
he  was  helpless;  their  wild  play  was  completely  distasteful  to  him; 
he  could  not  join  in  their  sports,  nor  roam  with  them  along  the  beach, 
nor  take  part  in  their  hazardous  exploits  in  the  harbor.  Accordingly, 
they  showered  upon  him  contemptuous  epithets;  and,  the  school  be- 
ing composed  of  both  sexes,  the  girls  joined  in  the  laugh.  Contin- 
ual ailments,  however,  prevented  his  attendance  for  weeks  together. 

"When  not  yet  fourteen,  he  was  taken  by  his  mother  for  change  of 
air  to  some  relatives  at  Glasgow,  then  a  quiet  place,  without  a  sin- 
gle long  chimney,  somewhat  resembling  a  rural  market-town  of  the 
present  day.  He  proved  so  wakeful  during  his  visit,  and  so  disposed 
to  indulge  in  that  story-telling  which  even  Sir  Walter  Scott  could 
admire  at  a  late  period  of  his  life,  that  IVIrs.  Watt  was  entreated  to 
take  him  home.  "  I  can  no  longer  bear  the  excitement  in  which  he 
keeps  me,'*  said  Mrs.  Campbell;  '*  I  am  worn  out  for  want  of  sleep." 
Every  evening,  before  our  usual  hour  of  retiring  to  rest,  he  adroitly 
contrives  to  engage  me  in  conversation,  then  begins  some  striking 
tale,  and,  whether  it  is  humorous  or  pathetic,  the  interest  is  so  over- 
powering, that  all  the  family  listen  to  him  with  breathless  attention; 
hour  after  hour  strikes  unheeded,  but  the  next  morning  I  feel  quite 
exhausted.  You  must  really  take  home  your  son."  His  taste  for 
fiction  never  left  him ;  and  to  the  close  of  his  days  he  took  delight 
in  reading  a  novel. 

James  Watt,  having  finished  his  education  at  the  grammar-school 
of  his  native  town,  received  no  further  instruction.  As  with  all  dis- 
tinguished men,  his  extensive  after-acquirements  in  science  and 
literature  were  entirely  the  result  of  his  own  self  culture.  Towards 
the  end  of  his  school  career  his  strength  seems  to  have  grown;  his 
progress  was  more  rapid  and  decided ;  and  before  ho  left  he  had 
taken  the  lead  of  his  class.  But  his  best  education  was  gathered  from 
the  conversation  of  his  parents.  Almost  every  cottage,  indeed,  in 
Scotland,  is  a  training-ground  for  their  future  men.  How  much  of 
the  unwritten  and  traditionary  history  which  kindles  the  Scotch- 
man's nationality,  and  tells  upon  his  future  life,  is  gleaned  at  his 
humble  fireside  !    Moreover,  the  library  shelf  of  Watt's  home  con- 


JAMES  AVAl^.  8 

tained  well-thumbed  volumes  of  Boston,  Bunyan,  and  "The  Clond 
of  Witnesses,"  with  Harry  the  Rhymer's  "  Life  of  Wallace,"  and  old 
ballads  tattered  by  frequent  use.  These  he  devoured  greedily,  and 
re-read  them  until  he  had  most  of  them  by  heart. 

During  holiday  times,  he  indulged  in  rambles  along  the  Clyde, 
sometimes  crossing  to  the  north  shore,  and  strolling  up  the  Gare 
Loch  and  Holy  Loch,  and  even  as  far  as  Ben  Lomond  itself.  He 
was  of  a  solitary  disposition,  and  loved  to  wander  by  himself  at  night 
amidst  the  wooded  pleasure-grounds  which  surrounded  the  old  man- 
sion-house overlooking  the  town,  watching  through  trees  the  mys- 
terious movements  of  the  stars.-^  He  became  fascinated  by  the  won- 
ders of  astronomy,  and  was  stimulated  to  inquire  into  the^  sciences 
by  the  nautical  instruments  which  he  found  amongst  his  father's 
ship-stores.  It  was  a  peculiarity  which  characterized  him  through 
life,  that  he  could  not  look  upon  any  instrument  or  machine  without 
being  seized  with  a  determination  to  unravel  its  mystery,  and  mas- 
ter the  rationale  of  its  uses.  Before  he  was  fifteen,  he  had  twice  gone 
through,  with  great  attention,  S'Gravesande's  Elements  of  Natural 
Philosophy,  which  belonged  to  his  father.  He  performed  many 
chemical  experiments,  and  even  contrived  to  make  an  electrical  ma- 
chine, much  to  the  marvel  of  those  who  felt  its  shocks.  Like  most 
invalids,  he  read  eagerly  such  books  on  medicine  as  came  in  his 
way.  He  went  so  far  as  to  practice  dissection;  and  on  one  occasion 
he  was  found  carrying  oflf  the  head  of  a  child  who  had  died  of  some 
uncommon  disease,  *'  He  told  his  son,"  says  Mr.  Muirhead,  *'that, 
had  he  been  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  the  sufferings  of  patients,  he 
would  have  been  a  surgeon."  In  his  rambles,  his  love  of  wild- 
flowers  and  plants  lured  him  on  to  the  study  of  botany.  Ever  ob- 
servant of  the  aspects  of  nature,  the  violent  upheavings  of  the  moun- 
tain ranges  on  the  northern  shore  of  Loch  Lomond  next  directed  his 
attention  to  mineralogy.  He  devoured  all  the  works  which  fell  in 
his  way;  and  on  a  friend  advising  him  to  be  less  indiscriminate,  he 
replied,  "1  have  never  yet  read  a  book,  or  conversed  with  a  com- 
panion, without  gaining  information,  instruction,  or  amusement." 
This  was  no  answer  to  the  admonition  of  his  friend,  who  merely 
recommended  him  to  bestow  upon  the  best  books  the  time  he  de- 
voted to  the  worse.  But  the  appetite  for  knowledge  in  inquisitive 
minds  is,  during  youth,  when  curiosity  is  fresh  and  unslaked,  too 
insatiable  to  be  fastidious,  and  the  volume  which  gets  the  prefer- 
ence is  usually  the  first  which  comes  in  the  way. 

Watt  was  not  a  mere  bookworm.  In  his  solitary  walks  through 
the  country,  he  would  enter  the  cottages  of  the  peasantry,  gather 
their  local  traditions,  and  impart  to  them  information  of  a  similar 
kind  from  his  own  ample  stores.  Fishing,  which  suited  the  tran- 
quil character  of  his  nature,  was  his  single  sport.  When  unable  to 
i-Amblc  for  the  purpose,  he  could  still  indulge  the  pursuit  while 
standing  in  his  father's  yard,  which  was  .open  to  the  sea.  and  the 


10  BRIEF  BIOGRAPfflES, 

water  of  snfficient  depth,  at  high  tide,  to  enable  yessels  of  fifty  or 
sixty  tons  to  lie  alongside. 

Watt,  as  we  have  seen,  had  learnt  the  use  of  his  hands,  a  highly 
serviceable  branch  of  education,  though  not  taaght  at  schools  or 
colleges.  He  could  ply  his  tools  with  considerable  dexterity,  and 
he  was  often  employed  in  the  carpenter's  shop  in  making  miniature 
cranes,  pulleys,  pumps,  and  capstans.  He  could  work  in  metal, 
and  a  punch-ladle  of  his  manufacture,  formed  out  of  a  large  silver 
coin,  is  still  preserved.  His  father  had  originally  intended  him  to 
follow  his  ovvn  business  of  a  merchant,  but  having  sustained  several 
heavy  losses  about  this  time, — one  of  his  ships  havinG^  foundered  at 
sea, — and  observing  the  strong  bias  of  his  son  towards  mechanical 
pursuits,  he  determined  to  send  him  to  Glasgow,  to  learn  the  trade 
of  a  mathematical-instrument  maker. 

In  1754,  when  he  was  in  his  eighteenth  year,  he  accordingly  set 
out  for  Glasgow,  which  was  as  diS'erent  from  the  Glasgow  of  18G0  as 
it  is  possible  to  imagine.  Little  did  he  dream,  when  he  entered  it 
a  poor  prentice  lad,  what  it  was  afterwards  to  become,  through  the 
result  of  his  individual  labors.  Not  a  steam  engine  or  a  steamboat 
then  distutbed  the  quiet  of  the  town.  There  was  a  little  quay  on 
the  Broomielaw,  partly  covered  with  broom  ;  and  this  quay  was 
fitted  with  a  solitary  crane,  for  which  there  was  but  small  use,  as 
boats  of  more  than  six  tons  could  not  ascend  the  Clyde.  Often  not 
a  single  masted  vessel  was  to  be  seen  in  the  river.  The  chief  mag- 
nates of  the  place  were  the  tobacco-merchants  and  the  Professors 
of  the  College.  Next  to  tobacco,  the  i^rincipal  trade  of  the  town 
with  foreign  countries  was  in  grindstones,  coals,  and  fish, — Glas- 
gow herrings  being  in  great  repute. 

Inconsiderable  though  Glasgow  was  at  the  middle  of  last 
century,  it  was  the  only  place  in  Scotland  which  exhibited  signs  of 
industrial  prosperity.  About  the  middle  of  last  century  Scotland 
was  a  poor  and  haggard  country.  Nothing  could  be  more  dreary 
than  those  Lowland  districts  which  now  perhaps  exhibit  the  finest 
agriculture  in  the  world.  Wheat  was  so  rare  a  plant,  that  a  field  of 
eight  acres  within  a  mile  of  Edinburgh  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
whole  neighborhood.  Even  in  the  Lothians,  Roxburgh,  the  Lan- 
arkshire, little  was  to  be  seen  but  arid,  bleak  moors  and  quaking 
bogs,  with  occasional  patches  of  uninclosed  and  ill-cultivated  land . 
Where  manure  was  used,  it  was  carried  to  the  field  on  the  back  of 
the  crofter's  wife  ;  the  crops  were  carried  to  market  on  the  back  of 
the  plow-horse,  and  occasionally  on  the  backs  of  the  crofter  and 
his  family.  The  country  was  without  roads,  and  between  the  towns 
there  were  onl}^  rough  tracks  across  moors.  Goods  were  conveyed 
from  place  to  place  on  pack-horses.  The  trade  between  Glasgow 
and  Edinburgh  was  conducted  in  the  same  rude  way  ;  and  when 
carriers  were  established,  the  time  occupied  going  and  coming  be- 
tween Edinburgh    ^<J    Selkirk— a  distance  <?f  only  thirty-eight 


JAMES  WATT.  11 

miles— was  an  entire  fortnight.  The  road  lay  along  Gala  Water, 
and  in  summer  the  driver  took  his  rude  cart  along  the  channel  of 
the  stream,  as  being  the  most  level  and  easiest  path.  In  winter  the 
road  was  altogether  impassable.  Communication  by  coach  was 
scarcely  anywhere  known.  A  caravan,  which  was  started  between 
Glasgow  and  Edinburgh  in  1749,  took  two  days  to  perform  the 
journey.  For  practical  purposes,  these  towns  were  as  distant  from 
London  as  they  now  are  from  New  York.  As  late  as  1763  there  was 
only  one  stage-coach  which  ran  to  London.  It  set  out  from  Edin- 
burgh once  a  month,  and  the  journey  occupied  from  fifteen  to  eigh- 
teen days.  Letters  were  mostly  sent  by  hand,  and  after  mails  were 
established  the  post-bags  were  often  empty.  Sir  Walter  Scott  knew 
a  man  who  remembered  the  London  post-bag,  which  contained  the 
letters  from  all  England  to  all  Scotland,  arriving  in  Edinburgh 
with  only  one  letter.  In  1707  the  entire  post-oiSce  revenue  of  Scot- 
land was  only  £1,194  ;  in  1857,  the  ]3enny-postage  of  Glasgow  alone 
produced  £68,877.  The  custom  dues  of  Greenock  now  produce 
more  than  five  times  the  revenue  derived  from  the  whole  of  Scot- 
land in  the  times  of  the  Stuarts.  The  Clyde,  which  less  than  a 
century  ago  could  scarcely  admit  the  passage  of  a  Kerring-boat, 
floats  down  with  almost  every  tide  vessels  of  thousands  of  tons 
burden,  capable  of  wrestling  with  the  hurricanes  of  the  Atlantic. 
The  custom-duties  levied  at  the  port  of  Glasgow  have  been  increased 
from  £125  in  1796,  to  £718,835  in  185t5.  The  advance  has  been 
ne'arly  the  same  in  all  the  other  departments  of  Scotch  industry. 

At  Glasgow,  Watt  in  vain  sought  to  learn  the  trade  of  a  mathemat- 
ical-instrument maker.  The  only  person  in  the  x^lace  di^aiified 
with  the  name  of  "Optician'*  was  an  old  mechanic  who  sold  and 
mended  spectacles,  constructed  and  repaired  fiddles,  tuned  the 
few  spinnets  of  the  town  and  neighborhood,  and  eked  out  a  slender 
living  by  making  and  selling  fishing-rods  and  fishing-tackle.  Watt 
was  as  handy  at  dressing  trout  and  salmon-flies  as  at  most  other 
things,  and  his  master  no  doubtfound  him  useful  enough  ;  but  there 
was  nothing  to  be  learned  in  return.  Profesor  Dick,  having  been  con- 
sulted as  to  the  best  course  to  be  pursued,  recommended  the  lad  to 
proceed  to  London.  Watt  accordingly  set  out  for  the  metropolis  in 
June,  1755,  in  the  company  of  a  relative,  Mr.  Marr,  the  captain  of  an 
East-Indiaman.  The  pair  traveled  on  horseback,  and  performed 
the  journey  in  thirteen  days.  Arrived  in  town,  they  went  from 
shop  to  shop  without  success.  Instrument-makers  were  few  in 
number,  and  the  rules  of  the  trade,  which  were  then  very  strict, 
only  permitted  them  to  take  into  their  emploj^ment  apprentices  who 
should  be  bound  for  seven  years,  or  journeymen  who  had  already 
served  their  time.  ''Ihave  not,"  said  Watt,  writing  to  his  father 
about  a  fortnight  after'his  arrival,  "yet  got  a  master;  we  have  tried 
several,  but  they  all  make  some  objection  or  other.  I  find  that,  if 
any  of  them   agree  with  me  at  all,  it  will  not  be  for  less  than  a  year, 


12  BEIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

and  even  for  that  time  they  will  be  expecting  some  mone3\'*  At 
length,  one  Mr.  Morgan,  an  instrument-maker  in  Finch  Lane, 
consented  to  take  him  for  twelvemonth,  for  a  fee  of  twenty  guineas. 
He  soon  proved  himself  a  ready  learner  and  skillful  workman.  The 
division  of  labor,  the  result  of  an  extensive  trade,  which  causes  the 
best  London-built  carriages  to  be  superior  to  any  of  provincial  con- 
struction, was  even  then  applied  to  mathematical  instruments. 
•'  Very  few  here,"  wrote  Watt,  *•  know  any  more  than  how  to  make 
a  rule,  others  a  pair  of  dividers  and  such  like. "  His  discursive 
mind  would  under  no  circumstances  have  allowed  him  to  rest  con- 
tent with  such  limited  proficiency,  and  he  probably  contemplated 
setting  up  in  Scotland,  where  every  branch  of  the  business  would 
have  to  be  executed  by  himself.  He  resolved  to  acquire  the  entin 
art,  and  from  brass  scales  and  rules  proceeded  to  Hadley's  quadrants, 
azimuth-compasses,  brass  sectors,  theodolites,  and  the  more  deli- 
cate sort  of  instruments.  By  the  end  of  the  year  he  wrote  to  his 
father  that  he  had  "just  made  a  brass  sector  with  a  French  joint, 
which  is  reckoned  as  nice  a  piece  of  framing  work  as  is  in  the  trade." 
To  relieve  his  father  of  the  expense  of  his  maintenance,  he  wrought 
after-hours  on  his  own  account.  His  living  cost  him  only  eight 
shillings  a  week  ;  and  lower  than  that,  he  wrote,  he  could  not  re- 
duce it,  *•  without  pinching  his  belly."  When  night  came,  **hi8 
body  was  wearied  and  his  hand  shaking  from  ten  hours'  hard  work." 
His  health  suffered.  His  seat  in  Mr.  Morgan's  shop  during  the 
winter  being  close  to  the  xloor,  which  was  frequently  opened  and 
shut,  he  caught  a  severe  cold.  But  in  spite  of  sickness  and  a  rack- 
ing cough,  he  stuck  to  his  work,  and  still  earned  money  in  his 
morning  and  evening  hours. 

Another  circumstance  prevented  his  stirring  abroad  during  the 
greater  portion  of  his  stay  in  London.  A  hot  press  for  sailors  was 
then  going  on,  and  as  many  as  forty  press-gangs  were  out.  In  the 
course  of  one  night  they  took  a  thousand  men.  Nor  were  the  kid- 
nappers idle.  These  were  the  agents  of  the  East  India  Company, 
and  had  crimpiug-houses,  or  depots,  in  different  parts  of  metropolis, 
to  receive  the  men  whom  they  secured  for  the  Indian  army.  When 
the  demand  for  soldiers  slackened,  they  continued  their  trade,  and 
sold  the  poor  wretches  to  the  planters  in  Pennsylvania  and  other 
North  American  colonies.  Sometimes  severe  fights  took  place 
between  the  press-gangs  and  the  kidnappers  for  the  possession  of 
the  unhappy  victims  who  had  been  seized.  "They  now  press  any- 
body they  can  get,"  wrote  Watt  in  the  spring  of  1756,  "landsmen  as 
well  as  seamen,  except  it  be  in  the  liberties  of  the  city,  where  they 
are  obliged  to  carry  them  before  the  Lord  Mayor  first ;  and  unless 
one  be  either  a  prentice  or  a  creditable  tradesman,  there  is  scarce 
any  getting  off  again.  And  if  I  was  carried  before  my  Lord  Mayor, 
I  durst  not  avow  that  I  worked  in  the  city,  it  being  against  their  laws 
for  any  non-freeman  to  work,  even  as  a  journeyman,  within  the  lib- 


JAMES  WATT.  13 

erties.*'  What  a  curious  glimpse  does  this  give  us  into  the  practice 
of  man-hunting  in  London  in  the  eighteenth  century  ! 

When  Watt's  year  with  Mr.  Morgan  was  up,  his  cold  had  assumed 
a  rheumatic  form.  Distressed  by  a  gnawing  pain  in  his  back,  and 
depressed  by  weariness,  he  determined  to  leave  London,  although 
confident  that  he  could  have  found  remunerative  employment,  and 
seek  for  health  in  his  native  air,  among  his  kinsfolk  at  Greenock. 
After  spending  about  twenty  guineas  in  purchasing  tools,  together 
with  the  materials  for  making  many  more,  and  buying  a  copy  of 
Bion's  work  on  the  construction  and  use  of  mathematical  instru- 
ments, he  set  off  for  Scotland,  and  reached  Greenock  in  the  autumn 
of  1756.  Shortly  after,  when  his  health  had  been  somewhat  restored 
by  rest,  he  proceeded  to  Glasgow  and  commenced  business  on  his 
own  account,  at  twenty  years  of  age. 

Li  endeavoring  to  establish  himself  in  his  trade,  Watt  encountered 
the  same  obstacle  which,  in  London,  had  almost  prevented  his 
learning  it.  Although  there  were  no  mathematical  instrument 
makers  in  Glasgow,  and  it  must  have  been  a  public  advantage  to 
have  him  settle  m  the  place,  he  was  opposed  by  the  corporation  of 
hammermen,  on  the  ground  that  he  was  neither  the  son  of  a  burgess, 
nor  had  served  an  apprenticeship  within  the  borough.  He  had 
been  employed,  however,  to  repair  some  mathematical  instruments 
bequeathed  to  the  University  by  a  gentleman  in  the  West  Indies  ; 
and  the  Professors,  having  an  absolute  authority  within  the  area 
occupied  by  the  college  buildings,  determined  to  give  him  an 
asylum,  and  free  him  from  the  incubus  of  Guilds.  By  the  mid- 
summer of  1757  he  was  securely  established  within  the  College 
precincts,  where  his  room,  which  was  only  about  twenty  feet  square, 
IS  still  to  be  seen,  and  is  the  more  interesting  that  its  walls  remain  in 
as  rude  a  state  as  when  he  left  it.  It  is  entered  from  the  quadrangle 
by  a  spiral  stone  stair-case,  and  over  the  door  in  the  court  below 
Watt  exhibited  his  name,  with  the  addition  of  **  Mathematical-Instru- 
ment Maker  to  the  University." 

Though  his  wants  were  few,  and  he  subsisted  on  the  humblest 
fare.  Watt  had  a  hard  struggle  to  live  by  his  trade.  After  a  year's 
trial  of  it,  he  wrote  to  his  father,  in  September,  1758,  "that  unless  it 
be  the  Hadley's  instruments,  there  is  little  to  be  got  by  it,  as  at 
most  other  jobs  I  am  obliged  to  do  the  most  of  them  myself ;  and  as 
it  is  impossible  for  one  person  to  be  expert  at  everything,  they  very 
often  cost  me  more  time  than  they  should  do."  Of  the  quadrants, 
he  could  make  three  in  a  week,  with  the  assistance  of  a  lad,  and  the 
profit  upon  the  three  was  405.  But  the  demand  was  small,  and,  unless 
he  could  extend  his  market,  "he  must  fall,"  he  said,  "into  some 
other  way  of  business,  as  this  will  not  do  in  its  present  situation." 
Failing  sufficient  customers  for  his  instruments  in  Glasgow,  he  sent 
them  to  Greenock  and  Port  Glasgow,  where  his  father  helped  him  to 
dispose  of  them.    Orders  gradually  flowed  in  upon  him,  but  his 


14  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

bnsiness  continued  to  be  very  small,  eked  out  though  it  was  by  map 
and  chart  selling. 

The  most  untoward  circumstances  have  often  the  happiest  results. 
It  is  not  Fortune  that  is  blind,  hut  man.  The  fame  and  success  of 
Watt  were  prol)ably  due  to  his  scanty  trade,  which  made  him  glad 
to  take  any  employment  requiring  mechanical  ingenuity.  A  Mason's 
lodge  in  Glasgow  desired  to  have  an  organ,  and  he  was  asked  to  build 
it.  He  was  totally  destitute  of  a  musical  ear,  and  could  not  dis- 
tinguish one  note  from  another.  But  he  accepted  the  offer.  He 
studied  the  philosophical  theory  of  music,  and  found  that  science 
would  be  a  substitute  for  his  want  of  ear.  He  commenced  by  building 
a  small  organ  for  Dr.  Black,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  large  one. 
He  was  always,  he  said,  dissatisfied  both  with  other  people's  work 
and  his  own,  and  this  habit  of  his  mind  made  him  study  to  improve 
upon  whatever  came  before  him.  Thus  in  the  process  of  building 
his  organ  he  devised  a  number  of  noval  expedients,  such  as  indicators 
and  regulators  of  the  strength  of  the  blast,  with  various  contrivances 
for  improving  the  efficiency  of  the  stops.  The  qualities  of  the 
ore^an  when  finished  are  said  to  have  e  cited  the  surprise  and  admi- 
ration of  musicians.  He  seems  at  one  period  to  have  been  almost 
as  much  a  maker  of  musical  as  of  mathematical  instruments.  He 
constructed  and  repaired  guitars,  flutes,  and  violins,  and  had  the 
same  success  as  with  his  organ. 

Small  as  was  Watt's  business,  there  was  one  circumstance  con- 
nected with  his  situation  which  must  have  been  peculiarly  grateful 
to  a  man  of  his  accomplishments  and  thirst  for  knowledge.  His 
shop,  being  conveniently  situated  within  the  College,  was  a  favorite 
resort  for  professors  as  well. as  students.  Amongst  his  visitors  were 
the  famous  Dr.  Black,  Professor  Simson,  the  restorer  of  the  science 
of  geometry,  Dr.  Dick,  and  Dr.  Moor ;  and  even  Dr.  Adam  Smith 
looked  in  occasionally.  But  of  all  his  associates  none  is  more 
closely  connected  with  the  name  and  history  of  Watt  than  John 
Kobison,  then  a  student  at  Glasgow,  and  afterwards  Professor  of 
Natural  Philosophy  at  Edinburgh  University.  He  was' nearer 
Watt's  own  age  than  the  rest,  and  stood  in  the  intimate  relation  of 
bosom  friend  as  well  as  fellow-inquirer  in  science.  Kobison  was  a 
prepossessing  person,  frank  and  lively,  full  of  fancy  and  good 
humor,  and  a  general  favorite  in  the  college.  He  was  a  capital 
talker,  an  extensive  linguist,  and  a  good  musician  ;  yet,  with  all  his 
versatility,  he  was  a  profound  thinker  and  a  diligent  student, 
especially  of  mathematical  and  mechanical  philosophy,  as  he  after- 
wards abundantly  proved  in  his  able  contributions  to  the  "Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica,"  of  which  he  was  the  designer  and  first  editor. 

Robison's  introduction  to  Watt  has  been  described  by  himself. 
After  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  beautifully  finished  instruments, 
Robison  entered  into  conversation  with  him  Expecting  to  find  a 
workman,  he  was  surprised  to  discover  a  philosopher.     **I  had  the 


JAMES  WATT.  15 

yanity,"  said  Kobison,  "to  think  myself  a  pretty  good  proficient  in 
iny  favorite  study  (mathematical  and  mechanical  philosophy),  and 
was  rather  mortified  at  finding  Mr.  Watt  so  much  my  superior.  But 
his  own  high  relish  for  these  things  made  him  pleased  with  the  chat  of 
any  person  who  had  the  same  tastes  with  himself;  and  his  innate  com- 
plaisance made  him  indulge  my  curiosity,  and  even  encourage  my 
endeavors  to  form  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  him.  I  lounged 
much  about  him,  and,  I  doubt  not,  was  frequently  teasing  him.  Thus 
our  acquaintance  began."  Shortly  after,  Kobison,  who  had  been 
originally  destined  for  the  Church,  left  College.  Being  of  a  roving 
disposition,  he  entered  the  navy  as  a  midshipman,  and  was  present 
at  some  of  the  most  remarkable  actions  of  the  war ;  and,  amongst 
others,  at  the  storming  of  Quebec.  Robison  was  on  duty  in  the  boat 
which  carried  Wolfe  to  the  point  where  the  army  scaled  the  heights 
the  night  before  the  battle,  and,  as  the  sun  was  setting  in  the  west, 
the  General,  doubtless  from  an  association  of  ideas  which  was  sug- 
gested by  the  dangers  of  the  coming  struggle,  recited  Gray's  Elegy, 
and  declared  that  "he  would  prefer  being  the  author  of  that  poem 
to  the  glory  of  beating  the  French  on  the  morrow." 

When  Bobison  returned  from  his  voy agings  in  1763,  a  traveled 
man, — having  had  the  advantage  during  his  absence  of  acting  as 
confidential  assistant  of  Admiral  Knowles  in  the  course  of  his 
marine  surveys  and  observations, — he  reckoned  himself  more  than 
on  a  par  with  Watt ;  but  he  soon  found  that  his  friend  had  been 
still  busier  than  himself,  and  was  continually  striking  into  new 
paths,  where  Robison  was  obliged  to  be  his  follower.  The  extent  of 
the  mathematical  instrument  maker's  investigations  was  no  less 
remarkable  than  the  depth  to  which  he  pursued  them.  Not  only 
did  he  master  the  principles  of  engineering,  civil  and  military,  but 
he  diverged  into  studies  in  antiquity,  natural  history,  languages, 
criticisms,  and  art.  Every  pursuit  became  science  in  his  hands, 
and  he  made  use  of  this  subsidiary  knowledge  as  stepping-stones 
towards  his  favorite  objects.  Before  long  he  was  regarded  as  one  of 
the  ablest  men  about  the  College  ;  and  "when,"  said  Robison  "to 
the  superiority  of  knowledge,  which  every  man  confessed,  in  his 
own  line,  is  joined  the  native  simplicity  and  candor  of  his  character, 
it  is  no  wonder  that  the  attachment  of  his  acquaintances  was  so 
strong.  I  have  seen  something  of  the  world  and  I  am  obliged  to 
say  that  I  never  saw  such  another  instance  of  general  and  cordial 
attachment  to  a  person  whom  all  acknowledged  to  be  their  superior. 
But  this  superiority  was  concealed  under  the  most  amiable  candor, 
and  liberal  allowance  of  merit  to  every  man.  Mr.  Watt  was  the  first 
to  ascribe  to  the  ingenuity  of  a  friend  things  which  were  very  often 
nothing  but  his  own  surmises  followed  out  and  embodied  by  ano- 
ther. 1  am  well  entitled  to  say  this,  and  have  often  experienced  it 
in  my  own  case. "  There  are  few  traits  in  biography  more  charming 
than  these  generous^  recogaitions  of  merit,  mutually  attributed  by 


16  BBIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

the  one  friend  to  the  other.  Arago,  in  quoting  the  words  of  llobison, 
has  well  observed  that  it  is  difficult  to  determine  whether  the  honor 
of  having  uttered  them  be  not  as  great  as  that  of  having  inspired 
them. 

By  this  high-minded  friend  the  attention  of  Watt  was  first  di- 
rected to  the  subject  of  the  steam-engine.  llobison  in  1759  sug- 
gested to  him  that  it  might  be  applied  to  the  moving  of  wheel-car- 
riages. The  scheme  was  not  matured,  and  indeed  science  was  not 
yet  ripe  for  the  locomotive.  But  after  a  short  interval  Watt  again 
reverted  to  the  study  of  steam,  and  in  1761  he  was  busily  engaged 
in  performing  experiments  with  the  humble  aid  of  apothecaries* 
phials  and  a  small  Papin's  digester.  There  were  then  no  museums 
of  art  and  science  to  resort  to  for  information,  and  he  perhaps  culti- 
vated his  own  powers  the  more  thoroughl3%  that  he  had  no  such  easy 
methods  of  acquiring  knowledge.  He  mounted  his  digester  with  a 
syringe  a  third  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  containing  a  solid  piston, 
When  he  turned  a  cock  the  steam  rushed  from  the  digester  against 
the  lower  side  of  the  piston  in  the  syringe,  and  by  its  expansive  power 
raised  a  weight  of  fifteen  pounds  with  which  the  piston  was  loaded. 
Then  again  turning  the  cock,  which  was  arran^^ed  so  as  to  cut  off 
the  communication  with  the  digester,  and  open  a  passuge  to  the 
air,  the  steam  escaped,  and  the  weight  upon  the  piston,  being  no 
longer  counteracted,  forced  it  to  descend.  He  saw  it  would  be  easy 
to  contrive  that  the  cocks  should  be  turned  by  the  machinery  in- 
stead of  by  the  hand,  and  the  whole  be  made  to"  work  of  itself  with 
perfect  regularity.  But  there  was  no  objection  in  the  method. 
Water  is  converted  into  vapor,  as  soon  as  its  eb^sticity  is  suf- 
ficient to  overcome  the  weight  of  the  air  which  keeps  it  down. 
Under  the  ordinary  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  the  water  acquires 
this  necessary  elasticity  at  212®;  but  as  the  steam  in  Papin's  di- 
gester was  prevented  from  escaping,  it  acquired  increased  heat, 
and  by  consequence  increased  elasticity.  Hence  it  was  that 
the  steam  which  issued  from  the  digester  was  not  only  able  to  sup- 
port the  piston  and  the  air  which  pressed  upon  its  upper  surface, 
but  the  additional  load  with  which  the  piston  was  weighted.  With 
the  imperfect  mechanical  construction,  however,  of  those  days 
there  was  a  risk  that  the  boiler  in  which  the  high-pressure  steam 
was  generated  would  be  burst  by  its  expansive  power,  which  also  en- 
abled it  to  force  its  way  through  the  ill-made  joints  of  the  engine. 
This,  conjoined  with  the  great  expenditure  of  steam,  led  Watt  to 
abandon  the  plan.  The  exigencies  of  business  did  not  then  allow 
him  to  pursue  his  experiments,  and  the  subject  again  slept  till  the 
winterof  1763— 64. 

The  College  at  Glasgow  possessed  a  model  of  one  of  Newcomen's 
engines,  which  had  been  sent  to  London  for  repair.  It  would  ap- 
pear that  the  eminent  artificer  to  whom  it  had  been  intrusted  paid 
iitUeaUenti<>n  to  it,  far  at  a  T^niversity  meeting  in  Jua^,  1760,  a  r^ 


JAMES  WATT,  17 

Bolution  was  pas?ecl  to  allow  Mr.  Anderson  "to  lay  out  a  sum  not 
exceeding  two  pounds  sterling  to  recover  the  steam-engine  from 
Mr.  Sisson,  instrument  maker,  at  London."  In  1763  this  clumsy 
little  engine,  destined  to  become  so  famous,  was  put  in  the  hands  of 
"Watt.  The  boiler  was  somewhat  smaller  than  an  ordinary  tea-kettle, 
the  cylinder  two  inches  in  diameter,  and  the  mathematical-instru- 
ment maker  merely  regarded  it  as  **a  fine  plaything."  When,  how- 
ever, he  had  repaired  the  machine  and  set  it  to  work,  he  found  that 
the  boiler,  though  apparently  sufficiently  large,  could  not  supply 
steam  fast  enough,  and  only  a  few  strokes  of  the  piston  could  be  se- 
cured. The  fire  under  it  was  stimulated  by  blowing,  and  more 
steam  was  produced,  but  still  the  machine  would  not  work  prop- 
erly. Exactly  at  the  point  where  another  man  would  have  aban- 
doned the  task  in  despair,  the  mind  of  Watt  became  thoroughly 
roused.  *•  Everything."  says  Professor  Robison,  "  was  to  him  the 
beginning  of  a  new  and  serious  study;  and  we  knew  he  would  not 
quit  it  till  he  had  either  discovered  its  insignificance,  or  had  made 
something  out  of  it. "  Thus  it  happened  with  the  phenomenon  pre- 
Hented'by  the  model  of  the  steam-engine.  He  endeavored  to  ascertain 
from  books  by  what  means  he  was  to  remedy  the  defects;  and  when 
books  failed  to  aid  him,  he  commenced  a  course  of  experiments,  and 
resolved  to  work  out  the  probelm  himself.  In  the  course  of  his  in- 
quiries he  came  upon  a  fact  which  more  than  any  other  led  his  mind 
into  the  train  of  thought  which  at  last  conducted  him  to  the  inven- 
tion of  which  the  results  were  destined  to  prove  so  stupendous. 
This  fact  was  the  existence  of  latent  heat.  But  before  we  go  on  to 
state  his  proceedings,  it  is  necessary  to  describe  the  condition  at 
which  the  steam-engine  had  arrived  w^hen  his  investigations  com- 
menced. 

Steam  had  not  then  become  a  common  mechanical  power.  The 
sole  use  to  which  it  was  applied  was  to  pump  water  from  mines.  A 
beam,  moving  upon  a  center,  had  affixed  to  it  a  chain,  which  was 
attached  to  the  piston  of  the  pump  ;  to  the  other  end  of  it  a  chain, 
which  was  attached  to  a  piston  that  fitted  a  cylinder.  It  was  by 
driving  this  latter  piston  up  and  down  the  cylinder  that  the  pump 
was  worked.  To  communicate  the  necessary  movement  to  the 
piston,  the  steam  generated  in  a  boiler  was  admitted  to  the  bottom  of 
the  cylinder,  forcing  out  the  air  through  a  valve  and  by  its  pressure 
upon  the  under  side  of  the  piston  counter  balancing  the  pressure 
of  the  atmosphere  upon  its  upper  side.  The  piston,  thus  placed 
between  two  equal  and  two  opposite  forces,  was  then  drawn  wp  to 
the  top  of  the  cylinder  by  the  greater  v/eight  of  the  pump-gear  at 
the  opposite  extremity  of  the  beam.  The  steam,  so  far,  only  dis- 
charged the  office  which  was  performed  by  the  air  it  displaced  ;  but 
if  the  air  had  been  allowed  to  remain,  the  piston  once  at  the  top  of 
the  cylinder  could  not  have  been  returned,  being  pressed  as  much 
by  th^  atmosphere  underneath  aff  by  the  atmosphere  above  it.    'lUio 


18  BRIEF  BIOGrwAPHIES. 

Bteam,  on  the  contrary,  could  be  conden  ,  by  injecting  coKl 
water  through  the  bottom  of  the  cylinder.  This  caused  a  vucuvim 
below  the  piston,  which  was  now  unsupported,  and  descended  by 
the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  upon  its  uj^per  surfacr\  When  the 
piston  reached  the  bottom,  the  steam  was  again  let  in,  and  the  pro- 
cess was  repeated. 

This  was  the  machine  in  use  when  "Watt  was  pursuing  the  investi- 
gations into  which  he  was  led  by  the  litttle  model  of  the  Newcomen 
engine.  Among  other  experiments,  "he  constructed  a  boiler  which 
showed,  by  inspection,  the  quaDtity  of  water  evaporated  in  a  given 
time,  and  thereby  ascertained  the  quantity  of  steam  used  in  every 
stroke  of  the  engine."  He  was  astonished  to  discover  that  a  small 
quantity  of  water,  in  the  form  of  steam,  heated  a  Icmje  quantity  of 
water  injected  into  the  cylinder  for  the  purpose  of  cooling  it  ;  and 
upon  further  examination,  he  ascertained  that  steam  heated  six  times 
its  weight  of  w^ell-water  to  212^,  which  was  the  temperature  of  the 
steam  itself.  Unable  to  understand  so  remarkable  a  circumstance, 
he  mentioned  it  to  Dr.  Black,  w^ho  then  expounded  to  him  the  theory 
of  latent  heat,  which  this  great  chemist  had  already  taught  his 
pupils,  unknown  to  Watt.  This  vast  amount  of  heat  stored  up  in 
steam,  and  not  indicated  by  the  thermometer,  involved  a  propor- 
tionate consumption  of  coals.  When  Watt  learned  that  w^ater,  in  its 
conversion  into  vapor,  became  such  a  reservoir  of  heat,  he  was  more 
than  ever  bent  upon  economizing  it,  striving,  with  the  same 
quantity  of  fuel,  at  once  to  augment  its  production  and  diminish  its 
waste.  "He  greatly  improved  the  boiler,"  says  Professor  E-obison, 
**  by  increasing  the  surface  to  which  the  fire  was  applied  ;  he  made 
flues  through  the  middle  of  the  water,  and  made  his  boiler  of  wood, 
as  a  worse  conductor  of  heat  than  the  brick-work  which  surrounds 
common  furnaces.  He  cased  the  cylinder  and  all  the  conducting- 
pipesin  materials  which  conducted  heat  very  slowly  ;  he  even  made 
them  of  wood."  But  none  of  these  contrivances  were  effectual ;  for 
it  turned  out  that  the  chief  expenditure  of  steam,  and  consequently 
of  fuel,  was  in  the  re-heating  the  cylinder  after  it  had  been  cooled 
by  the  injection  of  the  cold  water.  Nearly  four-fifths  of  the  whole 
steam  employed  was  condensed  on  its  first  admission,  before  the 
surplus  could  act  upon  the  piston.  Watt  therefore  came  to  the  con- 
clusion, that,  to  make  a  perfect  steam-engine,  it  was  necessary  that 
the  cylinder  should  be  always  as  hot  as  the  steam  that  entered  it ; 
but  it  was  equally  necessary  that  the  steam  should  be  condensed 
when  the  piston  descended, — nay,  that  it  should  be  cooled  down 
below  100*^,  or  a  considerable  amount  of  vapor  would  be  cfiven  off, 
which  would  resist  the  descent  of  the  piston  and  diminish  the 
engine.*     The  two  conditions  seemed   quite  incompatible.      The 

*  Since  the  more  the  pressure  upon  the  water  is  diminished,  the  lower  the 
temperature  at  which  it  boils,  water  at  any  temperature  less  than  loo*"  gives 
off  vapor  in  the  vacuum  ot  the  cylinder. 


JAMES  WATT.  19 

cylinder  was  never  to  be  at  a  less  temperattire  than  212^,  and  yet  at 
each  descent  of  the  piston  it  was  to  be  less  than  100^. 

*'  He  continued,"  he  says,  "to  grope  in  the  dark,  misled  by  many 
an  ignis  fatuus."  At  length,  as  he  was  taking  a  walk  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  in  the  spring  of  1765,  the  solution  of  the  problem  sud- 
denly flashed  upon  his  mind.  As  steam  w^as  an  elastic  vapor,  it 
would  expand  and  rush  into  a  previously  exhausted  space.  He 
had  only  to  produce  a  vacuum  in  a  separate  vessel;  and  open  a 
communication  between  the  vessel  and  the  cylinder  of  the  steam- 
engine  at  the  moment  when  the  piston  was  required  to  descend,  and 
the  steam  would  disseminate  itself  and  become  divided  between  the 
cylinder  and  the  adjoining  vessel.  But  as  this  vessel  would  be  kept 
cold  by  an  injection  of  water,  the  steam  would  be  annihilated  as  fast 
as  it  entered,  which  would  cause  a  fresh  outflow  of  the  remaining 
steam  in  the  cylinder  till  nearly  the  v/hole  of  it  was  condensed 
without  the  cylinder  itself  being  chilled  in  the  operation.  An  air- 
pump,  worked  by  the  steam-engine,  would  pump  from  the  subsidiary 
vessel  the  heated  water,  air,  and  vapor,  accumulated  by  the  con- 
densing process.  Great  and  prolific  ideas  are  almost  always  simple. 
What  seems  impossible  at  the  outset  appears  so  obvious  when  it  is 
effected,  that  we  are  prone  to  marvel  that  it  did  not  force  itself  at 
once  upon  the  mind.  Late  in  life.  Watt,  with  his  accustomed  mo- 
desty, declared  his  belief  that,  if  he  has  excelled,  it  had  been  by 
chance,  and  the  neglect  of  others.  But  mankind  has  been  more 
just  to  him  than  he  had  been  to  himself.  There  was  no  accident  in 
the  discovery.  It  had  been  the  result  of  close  and  continuous  study, 
and  the  idea  of  the  separate  condenser,  v^hich  flashed  upon  him  in 
ft  moment,  and  filled  him  with  rapture,  was  merely  the  last  step  of  a 
long  journey, — a  step  which  could  not  have  been  taken  unless  the 
previous  road  had  been  traversed. 

The  steam  in  Newcomen's  engine  was  only  employed  to  produce 
a  vacuum.  The  working  power  of  the  engine  was  in  the  down 
stroke,  which  was  effected  by  the  pressure  of  the  air  upon  the  piston  ; 
hence  it  is  now  usual  to  call  it  the  atmospheric  engine.  Watt  per- 
ceived that  the  air  v/hich  followed  the  piston  down  the  cylinder 
would  cool  the  latter,  and  that  steam  would  be  wasted  in  reheating 
it.  To  effect  a  further  saving,  he  resolved  "to  put  an  air-tight 
cover  upon  the  cylinder,  with  a  hole  and  stuffing-box  for  the  piston- 
rod  to  slide  through,  and  to  admit  steam  above  the  piston,  to  act 
upon  it  instead  of  the  atmosphere."  When  the  steam  had  done  its 
duty  in  driving  down  the  piston,  a  communication  was  opened 
between  the  upper  and  lower  part  of  the  cylinder,  and  the  same 
steam,  distributing  itself  equally  in  both  compartments,  sufficed  to 
restore  equilibrium.  The  piston  was  now  drawn  up  by  the  weight 
of  the  pump-gear,  the  steam  beneath  it  was  then  condensed  to  leave 
a  vacuum,  and  a  fresh  jet  of  steam  from  the  boiler  was  let  in  above 
the  piston,  and  forced  it  again  to  the  bottom  of  the  cylinder.    From 


20  BKIEF  biographies; 

an  atmosphmc  it  had  thns  become  a  true  steam-engine,  and  with  a 
much  greater  economy  of  steam  than  when  the  air  did  half  the  duty. 
But  it  was  not  only  important  to  keep  the  air  from  flowing  down  the 
inside  of  the  cylinder.  The  air  which  circulated  without  cooled  the 
metal,  and  condensed  a  portion  of  the  steam  within.  This  Watt 
proposed  to  remedy  by  a  second  cylinder,  surrounding  the  first, 
with  an  interval  between  the  two  which  was  to  be  kept  full  of  steam. 
*'When  once,"  ho  says,  "the  idea  of  separate  condensation  was 
started,  all  these  improvements  followed  as  corollaries  in  quic^k  suc- 
cession, so  that  in  the  course  of  one  or  two  days  the  invention  was 
thus  far  complete  in  my  mind." 

But  although  the  engine  was  complete  in  his  mind,  it  cost  Watt 
many  long  and  laborious  years  before  he  could  perfect  it  in  execu- 
tion. One  source  of  delay  was  the  numerous  expedients  which 
sprung  up  in  his  fertile  mind,  **  which,"  he  said,  "his  want  of 
experience  in  the  practice  of  mechanics  in  great  flattered  him  would 
prove  more  commodious  than  his  matured  experience  had  shown 
them  to  be.  Experimental  knowledge  is  of  slow  ^owth,  and  he  tried 
too  many  fruitless  experiments  on  such  variations."  One  of  his 
chief  difficulties  was  to  find  mechanics  to  make  his  large  models  for 
him.  The  beautiful  metal  workmanship  which  has  been  called  into 
being  by  his  own  invention  did  not  then  exist.  The  only  available 
hands  in  Glasgow  were  the  blacksmiths  and  tinners, — little  capable 
of  constructing  articles  out  of  their  ordinary  walk.  He  accordingly 
hired  a  small  work-shop  in  a  back  street  of  the  town,  where  he  might 
himself  erect  a  working  model,  with  the  aid  of  his  assistant,  John 
Gardiner.  His  mind,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  absorbed  in  the 
desire  to  realize  his  beautiful  conception.  **I  am  at  present,"  he 
wrote  to  his  friend  Dr.  Lind,  "quite  barren  on  every  other  article, 
my  whole  thoughts  being  bent  on  this  machine."  The  first  model, 
on  account  of  the  bad  construction  of  the  larger  parts,  was  only 
partially  successful,  and  then  a  second  and  bigger  model  was  com- 
menced in  August,  1765.  In  October  it  was  at  work  ;  but  the 
machine  leaked  in  all  directions,  and  the  piston  proved  not  steam- 
tight.  To  secure  a  nice-fitting  piston,  with  the  indifferent  work- 
manship of  that  day,  taxed  his  inp:enuity  to  the  utmost.  At  so  low 
an  ebb  was  the  art  of  making  cylinders,  that  the  one  he  employed 
was  not  bored  but  hammered,  the  collective  mechanical  skill  of 
Glasgoxv  being  then  unequal  to  the  casting  and  boring  of  a  cylinder 
of  the  simplest  kind.  In  the  Newcomen  engine  a  little  water  was 
poured  upon  the  upper  surface  of  the  piston,  and  filled  up  tiie  inter- 
stices between  the  piston  and  the  cylinder.  But  when  Watt 
employed  steam  to  drive  down  the  piston,  he  was  deprived  of  tliis 
resource  ;  for  the  water  and  the  steam  could  not  coexist.  Even  if 
he  had  retained  the  agency  of  the  air  above,  the  drip  of  water  from 
the  crevices  into  the  lower  part  of  the  cylinder  would  have  been 
incompatible  with  keeping  the  surface  hot  and  dry,  and,  by  turning 


JAMES  WATT.  «t 

into  vapor  as  it  fell  upon  the  heated  metal,  it  would  have  impaired 
the  vacuum  during  the  descent  of  the  piston.  To  add  to  Watt's 
troubles,  while  he  was  busied  with  his  model,  the  tinner,  who  was 
his  leading  mechanic,  died.  **My  old  white-iron  man  is  deadj"  he 
wrote  to  6r.  Roebuck  in  December, — an  almost  irreparable  loss  ! 
By  the  addition  of  collars  of  varnished  cloth  the  piston  was  made 
steam-tight,  and  the  machine  went  cleverly  and  successfully  on 
trials,  at  a  pressure  of  ten  to  fourteen  pounds  on  the  square  inch. 
Thus  inch  by  inch  Watt  battled  down  difficulty,  held  good  the 
ground  he  had  gained,  verified  the  expectations  he  had  formed,  and 
placed  the  advantages  of  the  invention,  to  his  own  mind,  beyond 
the  reach  of  doubt. 

Watt's  means  were  small,  and  there  were  no  capitalists  in  Glas- 
gow likely  to  take  up  the  steam-engine.  Commercial  enterprise 
had  scarcely  begun,  or  was  still  confined  to  the  trade  in  tobacco. 
To  give  a  fair  trial  to  the  new  apparatus  would  involve  an  expendi- 
ture of  several  thousand  pounds  ;  and  who  on  the  spot  could  be  ex- 
pected to  invest  so  large  a  sum  in  trying  a  machine  so  entirely 
new,  and  depending  for  its  success  on  physical  principles  very  im- 
perfectly understood  ?  But  he  had  not  far  to  go  for  an  associate. 
"Most  fortunately,"  says  Professor  Robison,  *♦  there  was  in  the 
neighborhood  such  a  person  as  he  wished — Dr.  Roebuck,  a  gentle- 
man of  very  uncommon  knowledge  in  all  the  branches  of  civil  en- 
gineering, familiarly  acquainted  with  the  steam-engine,  of  which  he 
employed  several  in  his  collieries,  and  deeply  interested  in  this 
improvement.  He  was  also  well  accustomed  to  great  enterprises, 
of  an  undaunted  spirit,  not  scared  by  difficulties,  nor  a  niggard  of 
expense."  He  was  born  at  Sheffield  in  1718,  and  practiced  as  a 
physician  at  Birmingham  with  distinguished  success,  had  made 
many  improvements  in  various  manufacturing  arts,  and  was  now 
engaged  in  the  double  task  of  carrj^ing  on  iron-works  at  Carron  and 
sinking  coal-mines  at  Borrowstoness. 

As  early  as  August,  1765,  Watt  was  in  full  correspondence  with 
Roebuck  on  the  subject  of  the  engine.  No  partnership  was  entered 
into  till  1778  ;  but  it  is  evident,  from  the  nature  of  Watt's  letters, 
that  Roebuck  took  the  greatest  interest  in  the  project,  and  had 
probably  pledged  himself  to  engage  in  it  if  the  experiments  prom- 
ised success.  In  November,  Watt  sent  detailed  drawings  of  a  cov- 
ered cylinder  and  piston  to  be  cast  at  the  Carron  works.  Though 
the  cylinder  was  the  best  that  could  be  made  there,  it  was  so  iil- 
bored  as  to  be  useless.  The  piston-rod  was  constructed  at  Glas- 
gow, under  his  own  supervision  ;  and  when  it  was  completed,  he 
was  afraid  to  send  it  in  a  cart,  lest  the  work-people  should  see  it, 
which  would  "occasion  speculation."  *'I  believe,"  he  added,  "it 
will  be  best  to  send  it  in  a  box."  These  precautions  would  seem  to 
have  been  dictated  by  a  fear  of  piracy.  The  necessity  of  acting  by 
stealth  increased  the  difficulties  arising  from  the  clumsiness  and  in- 


22  BRIEF  BIOGEAPHIES. 

experience  of  the  mechanics.  There  is  a  gap  in  the  correspondence 
of  Watt  with  Roebuck  from  May,  1766,  to  January,  1768,  and  we 
hear  no  more  of  this  piston-rod  or  of  its  worthless  cylinder.  Some- 
thing, however,  must  have  occurred  in  the  interval  to  inspire  Roe- 
buck with  confidence,  for,  in  1767,  he  undertook  to  pay  a  debt  of 
£1,000  which  Watt  had  contracted  in  prosecuting  his  project,  to 
provide  the  money  for  the  further  experiments,  and  to  pay  for.  the 
patents.  In  return  for  this  outlay  ho  was  to  have  two-thirds  of 
the  property  in  the  invention. 

In  April,  1768,  Watt  made  trial  of  a  new  model.  The  result  was 
not  altogether  satisfactory.  Roebuck,  in  reply  to  the  announce- 
ment, asked  Watt  to  meet  him  at  Kilsythe,  a  place  about  half-way 
between  Carron  and  Glasgow,  and  talk  the  matter  over.  "  I  would," 
says  Watt,  in  his  answer,  "with  all  my  heart,  wait  upon  you  on 
Friday,  but  am  far  from  being  well,  and  the  fatigue  of  the  ride 
would  disable  me  from  doing  anything  for  three  or  four  daj' s  ;  be- 
sides, I  hope  by  that  time  to  have  a  more  successful  trial,  without 
which  I  cannot  have  peace  in  my  mind  to  enjoy  anything."  After 
vfirious  contrivances,  a  trial  which  he  made  on  the  24th  of  May 
answered  to  his  heart's  content.  •*  I  intend,'*  he  wrote,  to  Dr.  Roe- 
buck, **to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  Kinneil  on  Saturday 
or  Friday.  I  sincerely  wish  you  joy  of  this  successful  result,  and 
hope  it  will  make  you  some  return  for  the  obligation  I  ever  will  re- 
main under  to  you."  Kinneil  House,  where  Watt  hastened  to  pay 
his  visit  of  congratulation  to  Dr.  Roebuck,  was  a  singular  old  edifice, 
a  former  country  seat  of  the  Dukes  of  Hamilton,  finely  situated  on 
the  shores  of  the  Forth,  with  large  apartments  and  stately  staircases, 
and  an  external  style  of  architecture  which  resembles  the  old 
French  chateau.  The  mansion  has  become  rich  in  classical  asso- 
ciations, having  been  inhabited,  since  Roebuck's  time,  by  Dugald 
Stewart,  who  wrote  in  it  his  •*  Philosophy  of  the  human  Mind." 
There  he  was  visited  by  Wilkie,  the  painter,  when  in  search  of  sub- 
jects for  his  pictures,  and  Dugald  Stewart  found  for  him,  in  an  old 
farm-house  in  the  neighborhood,  the  cradle-chimney  which  is  in- 
troduced in  tlie  "Penny  Wedding."  But  none  of  these  names  can 
stand  by  the  side  of  that  of  Watt,  and  the  first  thought  at  Kinneil, 
of  every  one  who  is  familiar  with  his  history,  would  be  of  the 
memorable  day  when  he  rode  over  in  exultation  to  Dr.  Roebuck  to 
wish  him  joy  of  the  success  of  the  steam-engine.  His  date  of  tri- 
nm]:')h  was,  however,  premature.  He  had  yet  to  suffer  many  sicken- 
ing delays,  and  many  bitter  disappointments  ;  for  though  he  had 
contrived  to  get  his  model  executed  with  fair  precision,  the  skill 
was  still  wanting  for'inanufacturing  the  parts  in  their  lull  size  with 
the  requisite  nicety,  and  his  present  conquest  was  succeeded  by 
discomfiture. 

The  model  went  so  well  that  it  was  now  determined  to  take  out 
a  patent,  and  in   August,  1768,    Watt  went  to  London  for  the  pur- 


JALIES  WATT.  23 

pose.  After  transacting  bia  business  be  proceeded  bom©  by  way  of 
fcirmingbam,  then  tbe  best  school  of  mechanics  in  England.  He 
here  saw  his  future  partner,  Mr.  Boulton,  for  the  first  time,  and 
they  at  once  conceived  for  each  other  a  hearty  regard.  Mr.  Boul- 
ton, in  particular,  was  strongly  impressed  both  by  the  character 
and  genius  of  Watt.  They  had  much  conversation  respecting  the 
engine,  and  it  cheered  its  inventor  that  the  sagacious  and  practical 
Birmingham  manufacturer  augured  well  of  its  success.  Watt  seems, 
however,  to  have  been  seized  with  low  spirits  on  his  return  to  Glas- 
gow ;  his  heart  probably  aching  with  anxiety  for  his  family,  whom  it 
was  hard  to  maintain  upon  hojpe  so  often  deferred.  The  more  san- 
guine Doctor  was  elated  with  the  good  working  of  the  model,  and 
he  was  impatient  to  put  the  invention  in  practice.  "  You  are  let- 
ting," he  wrote  to  Watt,  October  30,  1768,  "the  most  active  part  of 
your  life  insensibly  glide  away.  A  day,  a  moment,  ought  not  to 
be  lost.  And  you  should  not  suffer  your  thoughts  to  be  diverted 
by  any  other  object,  or  even  improvement  of  this,  but  only  the 
speediest  and  most  effectual  manner  of  executing  one  of  a  proper 
size,  according  to  your  present  ideas."  This  was  an  allusion  to  the 
fresh  expedients  which  were  always  starting  up  in  Watt's  brain,  and 
which  appeared  endlessly  to  protract  the  consummation  of  the  work  ; 
but  it  was  by  never  resting  satisfied  with  imperfect  devices  that  he 
attained  to  perfection,  Long  after,  when  a  noble  Lord  was  ex- 
pressing his  admiration  at  his  great  achievement.  Watt  replied, 
"The  public  only  look  at  my  success,  and  not  on  the  intermediate 
failures  and  uncouth  constructions  which  have  served  as  steps  to 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  ladder."  As  to  the  lethargy  of  which  Koe- 
buck  spoke,  it  was  merely  the  temporary  reaction  of  a  mind  strained 
and  wearied  with  long-continued  application  to  a  single  subject. 

The  patent  w^as  dated  January  5,  1769,  a  year  also  memorable  as 
that  in  which  Arkwright  took  out  the  patent  for  his  spinning- 
machine,  and  Watt  by  the  law  had  four  months  in  which  to  prepare 
his  specifications.  To  render  it  as  perfect  as  possible,  he  com- 
menced a  series  of  fresh  experiments,  and  all  his  spare  hours  were 
devoted  to  making  various  trials  of  pipe-condensers  and  drum  con- 
densers,— trying  to  contrive  new  methods  of  securing  tightness  of 
the  piston,  and  devising  steam-jackets  to  prevent  the  waste  of 
iieat, — inventing  oil-pumps,  gauge-pumps,  and  exhausting-cylind- 
ersi, — loading  valves,  beams,  and  cranks. 

He  commenced  at  Kinneil  the  construction  of  a  steam-engine  on 
■a  larger  scale  than  he  had  yet  attempted.  It  had  been  originally  in- 
tended t^  erect  it  in  the  small  town  of  Borrowstoness;  but  as  he  wished 
to  avoid  dis-pl-ay,  being  determined,  as  he  said,  "not to  puff,"  he 
put  it  up  in  an  o.uthouse  at  Kinneil,  close  by  the  burnside  in  the 
glen,  wheire  there  msiS  abundance  of  water  and  secure  privacy.  The 
materials  were  brought;  partly  from  Glasgow  and  partly  from  Carron, 
where  the  cyliJider  haa  ibeeu  cast.      Th«  process  of  erection  was 


U  BRIEF  BIOGBAPHIES. 

tedious,  for  the  mechanics  were  unnsed  to  the  -v^brk.  Watt  was  oc- 
casionally compelled  to  be  absent  on  other  business,  and  he  gener- 
ally on  his  return  found  the  men  at  a  stand-still,  not  knowinj^  what 
to  do  next.  As  the  engine  neared  completion  "his  anxiety  for  his 
approaching  doom  kept  him  from  sleep,"  for  his  fears,  he  says,  were 
at  least  equal  to  his  hopes.  The  whole  was  finished  in  September, 
1769,  and  proved  a  *'clumsy  job."  One  of  his  new  contrivances  did 
not  work  well;  and  the  cylinder,  having  been  badly  cast,  w^s  almost 
useless.  Watt  again  was  grievously  depressed.  **  It  is  a  sad  thing," 
he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Dr.  Small  of  Birmingham,  in  March,  1770, 
*'for  a  man  to  have  his  all  hanging  by  a  single  string.  If  I  had 
wherewithal  to  pay  the  loss,  I  don't  think  I  should  so  much  fear 
a  failure;  but  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  other  people  becoming 
losers  by  my  scheme,  and  I  have  the  happy  disposition  of  always 
painting  the  worst."  His  poverty  was  already  compelling  him  to 
relinquish  his  experiments  for  employment  of  more  pecuniary  profit 

Watt  had  married  bis  cousin,  Miss"  Miller,  in  July,  1764.  His  ex- 
penses were  thus  enlarged  almost  at  the  very  moment  when  his 
invention  began  to  fill  his  mind,  and  distracted  his  attention  from 
his  ordinary  calling.  His  increasing  family  led  him  before  long  to 
seek  employment  as  a  land-surveyor,  or,  as  it  was  called  in  Scotland, 
a  "  land-louper."  Much  of  his  business  was  of  the  class  which  now 
belongs  to  the  civil  engineer,  and  in  1767  he  laid  out  a  small  canal 
to  unite  the  rivers  Forth  and  Clyde.  There  was  a  rival  scheme, 
cheaper  and  more  direct,  which  was  espoused  by  the  celebrated 
Smeaton,  and  Watt  had  to  answer  before  a  Committee  of  the  House 
of  Commons  to  defend  his  plan.  *'  I  think,"  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Watt, 
Aprils,  1767,  "I  shall  not  long  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  House 
of  Commons  again:  I  never  saw  so  many  wrong-headed  people  on 
all  sides  gathered  together."  The  fact  that  they  decided  against  him 
had  probably  its  share  in  producing  this  opinion  of  their  wrong- 
headedness. 

In  April,  1769,  when  he  was  busily  engaged  in  erecting  the  Kir- 
neil  engines,  he  heard  that  a  linen-draper  in  London,  of  the  name 
of  Moore,  had  plagiarized  his  invention,  and  the  reflections  which 
this  drew  forth  from  him  is  an  evidence  of  the  settled  despondency 
which  clouded  his  mind,  and  even  cramped  his  faculties. 

I  have  resolved,  unless  these  things  that  I  have  now  brought  to  some  per- 
fection reward  me  for  the  time  and  money  I  have  lost  on  them.  If  I  can 
resist  it,  to  Invent  no  more.  Indeed,  I  am  not  near  so  capable  as  I  once  was; 
I  find  that  I  ain  not  the  same  person  that  I  was  four  years  ago,  when  I  In- 
vented tlie  fire-engine,  and  foresaw,  even  hefore  I  made  a  model,  almost  every 
circumstance  that  has  since  occurred.  I  was  at  that  time  spurred  on  by  the 
alluring  hope  of  placing  myself  above  want,  without  being  obliged  to  have 
much'dealing  with  mankind,  to  whom  I  have  always  been  a  dupe.  The  neces- 
sary experience  in  great  *  was  wanting;  in  acquiring  which  I  have  met  with 

*  The  expression  '*in^reat"  means  machines  unon  a  lafge  scale,  Instead 
of  the  small  models  with  which  his  experimeats  liaii  b^ea  mad^. 


JAMES  WATT.  25 

m^ny  disappointments.  I  must  have  sunk  under  the  burden  ot  them  If  I  had 
not  been  supported  by  the  friendship  of  Dr.  Koebuck.  I  have  now  brought 
the  engine  near  a  conclusion,  j'-^t  I  am  not  In  Idea  nearer  that  rest  I  wished 
for  than  I  was  four  years  ago.  However,  I  am  resolved  to  do  all  I  can  to 
carry  on  this  business,  and  If  it  does  not  thrive  with  me  I  will  lay  aside  the 
burden  I  cannot  carry.    Of  all  things  in  life  there  is  nothing  more  foolish 

THAN    INVENTING. 

It  is  nevertheless  a  remarliable  proof  of  his  indefatigable  persever- 
ance in  his  favorite  pursuit,  that  at  this  very  time,  when  apparently 
sunk  in  the  depths  of  gloom,  he  learned  German  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  getting  at  the  contents  of  a  curious  book,  the  '*  Theatrum  Machi- 
narum  "  of  Leupold,  which  just  then  fell  into  his  hands,  and  which 
contained  an  account  of  the  machines,  furnaces,  methods  of  working, 
profits,  etc.,  of  the  mines  in  the  Upper  Hartz.  His  instructor  on  the 
occasion  was  a  Swiss  dyer  settled  in  Glasgow.  With  the  similar 
object  of  gaining  access  to  untranslated  books  in  French  and  Italian, 
— then  the  great  depositories  of  mechanical  and  engineering  knowl- 
edge,— Watt  had  already  mastered  both  these  languages. 

Mrs.  Watt  had  on  one  occasion  written  to  him,  "If  the  engine  will 
not  do,  something  else  will :  never  despair."  The  engine  did  not 
do  for  the  present,  and  he  was  compelled  to  continue  his  surveying. 
Instead  of  laying  aside  one  burden  he  was  constrained  to  add  a 
second.  In  September,  1769,  just  when  he  tried  the  Kinneil  engine, 
he  was  employed  in  examining  the  Clyde  with  a  view  to  improve  the 
navigation,— for  the  river  was  still  so  shallow  as  to  prevent  boats  of 
more  than  ten  tons  burden  ascending  to  the  Broomielaw.  Watt 
made  his  report,  but  no  steps  were  taken  to  execute  his  suggestions 
until  several  years  later,  when  the  commencement  was  made  of  a 
series  of  improvements,  which  have  resulted  in  the  conversion  of 
the  Clyde  from  a  pleasant  trouting-stream  into  one  of  the  busiest 
navigable  highways  in  Europe. 

I  would  not  have  meddled  with  It,  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Small,  had  I  been  certain 
of  bringing  the  engine  to  bear ;  but  I  cannot,  on  an  uncertainty,  refuse  any 

Eiece  of  business  that  offers.  I  have  refused  some  common  fire-engines,* 
ecause  they  must  have  taken  up  my  attention  so  as  to  hinder  my  going  on 
TiTlth  my  own.  However,  if  I  cannot  make  it  answer  soon,  I  shall  certainly 
undertake  the  next  that  offers,  for  I  cannot  afford  to  trifle  away  my  whole 
life,  which  God  knows  may  not  be  long.  Not  that  I  think  myself  a  proper 
hand  for  keeping  men  to  their  duty;  but  I  must  use  my  endeavor  to  make 
myself  square  with  the  world  if  I  can,  though  I  much  fear  I  never  shall. 

"To-day,"  he  again  wrote  to  Dr.  Small  on  the  31st  of  January,  1770, 
*•  I  enter  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  my  life,  and  I  think  I  have  hardly 

*  The  fire-engine  was  the  name  given  in  those  days  to  the  atmospheric 
engines  of  Newcomen.  Watt  says  elsewhere  that  ♦♦  he  was  concerned  In 
making  some,"  but  whether  previous  or  subsequent  to  this  letter  of  September 
90, 1760,  does  not  appear. .  ._  _     .    .       . 


28  BKIEF  BIOGItAPHIES, 

done  thirty-five  pence  worth  of  good  in  the  world;   but  I  cannot 
help  it." 

The  people  of  Glasgow  decided  upon  making  a  canal  for  coal  traf- 
fic to  the  collieries  atMonkland,  in  Lanarkshire;  **and  having,"  says 
Watt,  **  conceived  a  much  higher  idea  of  my  abilities  than  they  merit, 
they  resolved  to  encourage  a  man  that  lived  among  them  rather  than 
a  stranger."  He  made  the  survey  in  17G9,  and  the  air  and  exercise 
acted  like  a  cordial  upon  him.  "  The  time,"  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Small, 
January  3,  1770,  **  has  not  been  thrown  away,  for  the  vaguing  (wan- 
dering) about  the  country,  and  bodily  fatigue,  have  given  me 
health  and  spirits  beyond  what  I  commonly  enjoy  at  this  dreary 
season,  though  they  would  still  thole  amends  (bear  improvement). 
Hire  yourself  to  somebody  for  a  plowman, — it  will  cure  ennui." 
He  made  another  siirvey  of  a  canal  from  Perth  to  Cupar  in  the  spring 
of  1770,  with  a  less  favorable  result.  The  weather  was  inclement, 
and  the  wind  and  snow  and  cold  brought  back  his  low  spirits  and 
ill  health.  When  the  Act  for  the  Monkland  Canal  was  obtained,  he 
was  invited  to  superintend  the  execution  of  it,  and  "had  to  select " 
whether  to  go  on  with  the  experiments  on  the  engine,  the  event  of 
which  was  uncertain,  or  to  embrace  an  honorable  and  perhaps  profit- 
able employment."  His  necessities  decided  him.  ♦*  I  had  a  wife 
and  children,  and  saw  myself  growing  gray  without  having  any  set- 
tled way  of  providing  for  them."  He  determined,  however,  not  to 
drop  the  engine,  but  to  proceed  with  it  the  first  spare  moments  he 
could  find.  In  December,  1770,  he  made  a  report  to  Dr.  Small  of 
his  experience  in  canal-making,  and  it  was  not  very  favorable.  His 
constant  headaches  continued,  but  in  other  respects  he  had  gained 
in  vigor  of  mind  and  body.  "I  find  myself  more  strong,  more 
resolute,  less  lazy,  less  confused  than  I  was  when  I  began  it."  His 
pecuniary  affairs  were  alone  more  prosperous.  '*  Supposing  the 
engine  to  stand  good  for  itself,  I  am  able  to  pay  all  my  debts,  and 
some  little  thing  more,  so  that  I  hope  in  time  to  be  on  a  par  with  the 
world."  But  there  was  a  dark  side  to  the  picture.  His  life  was  one 
of  vexation,  fatigue,  hunger,  wet,  and  cold.  The  quiet  and  secluded 
habits  of  his  early  life  did  not  fit  him  for  the  out-door  work  of  the 
engineer.  He  was  timid  and  reserved,  and  wanted  that  rough 
strength, — that  navvy  sort  of  character, — which  enables  a  man  to 
deal  with  rude  laborers.  He  was  nervously  fearful  lest  his  want  of 
experience  should  betray  him  into  scrapes,  and  lead  to  impositions 
on  the  part  of  the  workmen.  He  hated  higgling,  and  declared  that 
he  would  rather  **face  a  loaded  cannon  than  settle  an  account  or 
make  a  bargain."  He  acted  as  survej^or,  engineer,  superintendent 
and  treasurer,  with  only  the  assistance  of  one  clerk;  and  had  been 
"cheated,"  he  said,  "by  undertakers,  and  was  unlucky  enough 
to  know  it."  His  men  were  so  inexperienced;  that  he  had  to  watch 
the  execution  of  every  piece  of  work  that  was  out  of  the  common 
track.     Yet,  with  all  this,  "the  work  done  was  slovenly,  the  work- 


JAMES  WATT.  27 

men  bad,  and  ha  himself  not  sufficiently  strict.'*  The  defect  which 
he  charged  on  himself  was  merely  the  want  of  training  and  expe- 
rience in  the  laborer  j  Vv^hen  Telford  afterwards  went  into  the  High- 
lands to  construct  the  Caledonian  Canal,  he  encountered  the  same 
difficulty.  The  men  were  unable  to  make  use  of  the  most  ordinary 
tools;  they  had  no  steadiness  in  their  labor;  and  they  had  to  be 
taught,  and  drilled,  and  watched  like  children  at  school.  In  fact, 
every  great  undertaking  in  engineering  maybe  regarded  in  the  light 
of  a  working  academy  in  which  men  are  trained  to  the  skillful  use 
of  tools  and  the  habitof  persistent  industry;  and  the  Scotch  laborers 
were  only  then  passing  through  the  elementary  discipline.  Watt 
determined  he  would  not  continue  a  slave  to  this  hateful  employ- 
ment. He  was  willing  to  act  as  engineer,  but  not  as  manager,  and 
said  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  "  with  workmen,  cash,  or  work- 
men's accounts." 

His  superintendence  of  the  Monkland  Canal,  for  which  he  received 
a  salary  of  £200  a  year,  lasted  from  June,  1770,  to  December,  1772. 
Before  that  period  had  expired,  a  commercial  crisis  had  arrived; 
and  Dr.  Koebuck,  whose  unremunerative  speculations  had  already 
brought  him  to  the  verge  of  ruin,  was  unable  to  weather  the  storm\ 
All  the  anxieties  of  Watt  were  revived,  and  more  for  Koebuck  than 
for  himself.  But  an  extract  from  his  letter  to  Dr.  Small,  on  the  30th 
of  August,  1772,  will  best  speak  his  sentiments: — 

I  pursued  my  experiments  till  I  found  that  the  expense  and  loss  of  time 
lying  wholly  upon  me,  through  the  distress  of  Dr.  Koehuck's  situation, 
turned  out  to  he  a  burden  greater  than  i  could  support,  and  not  having  con- 
quered all  the  difficulties  that  lay  In  the  way  of  the  execution,  I  was  obhged 
lor  a  time  to  abandon  the  project.  iSince  that  time  I  have  been  able  to 
extricate  myself  from  some  part  of  my  private  debts,  but  am  by  no  means 
yet  in  a  situation  to  be  the  principal  in  so  considerable  an  undertaking.  Ihe 
Doctor  s  affairs,  being  yet  far  from  being  reinstated,  give  me  little  hope  of 
help  from  that  quarter :  In  the  mean  time  the  time  of  the  patent  is  running 
on.  It  is  a  matter  of  great  vexation  to  me  that  the  Doctor  should  be  out  so 
great  a  sum  upon  this  affair,  while  he  has  otherwise  such  pressing  occasion 
for  the  money.  1  find  myself  unable  to  give  him  such  help  as  his  situation 
requires;  and  what  Uttle  l  can  do  for  him  is  purchased  by  denying  myself  the 
conveniences  of  life  my  situation  requires,  or  by  remaining  in  debt  where  it 
galls  me  to  the  bone  to  owe. 

He  repeated  in  November,  that  nothing  gave  him  so  much  pain  as 
having  entangled  Dr.  Roebuck  m  the  scheme,  and  that  he  would 
willingly  have  resigned  all  prospect  of  profit  to  himself,  provided 
his  associate  could  have  been  indemnified.  He  regarded  the  con- 
siderable sum  which  he  had  sunk  on  his  own  part,  ''as  money  spent 
upon  his  education,"  and  looked  for  scarce  any  other  recompense 
"for  the  anxiety  and  ruin  in  which  the  engine  had  involved  him." 
These  are  the  sentiments  of  a  mind  of  sensitive  honof,  as  well  as 
scrupulous  integrity.  In  the  issue,  the  embarrassments  of  Koebuck 
proved  the  making  of  the  steam-engine  and  of  Watt 


28  BKIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

The  association  of  Watt  with  Dr.  Roebuck  was  in  many  respects 
fortunate,  for  the  latter  possessed  the  qualities  in  which  the  former 
was  deficient.  •*  I  find  myself,"  Watt  wrote,  **oig;  of  my  sphere  when 
I  have  anything  to  do  with  mankind  ;  it  is  enough  for  an  engineer 
to  force  Nature,  and  to  bear  the  vexation  of  her  getting  the  better  of 
him.  Give  me  a  survey  to  make,  and  I  think  you  will  have  credit 
of  me  ;  set  me  to  contrive  a  machine,  and  I  will  exert  myself."  To 
invent  was  Watt's  faculty  ;  to  push  an  invention  was  entirely  con- 
trary to  his  temperament.  Not  only  was  he  averse  lo  business,  but 
he  was  easily  depressed  by  little  obstructions,  and  alarmed  at 
unforeseen  expense.  Roebuck,  on  the  contrary,  was  sanguine, 
adventurous,  and  energetic.  The  disposition  of  Watt  to  despond 
under  difiiculties,  and  his  painful  diffidence  in  himself,  were  fre- 
quent subjects  of  friendly  merriment  at  Kinneil  House  ;  and  Mrs. 
Roebuck  said  one  evening  :  **  Jamie  is  a  queer  lad,  and  without  the 
Doctor  his  invention  would  have  been  lost ;  but  Dr.  Roebuck  won't 
let  it  perish."  Watt  always  acknowledged  the  debt  he  owed  him,  and 
declared  he  had  been  to  him  ''a  most  sincere  and  generous  friend." 
The  alliance,  however,  was  not  without  its  drawbacks.  The  exten- 
sive undertakings  of  Dr.  Roebuck  absorbed  both  his  capital  and  his 
time.  He  was  unable  to  pay,  according  to  the  terms  of  his  engage- 
ment, the  expenses  of  the  patent,  and  Watt  had  to  borrow  the  money 
from  Dr.  Black.  His  coal  and  iron- works  required  incessant  super- 
intendence, and  the  management  of  the  business  connected  with  the 
steam-engine  chiefly  devolved  upon  Watt,  who  said  he  "was  incapable 
of  it  from  his  natural  inactivity,  and  want  of  health  and  resolution." 
When  he  passed  through  Birmingham  on  his  way  from  London,  in 
October,  1768,  Mr.  Bouiton,  who  then  knew  nothing  of  Watt's  agree- 
ment with  Roebuck,  oftered  to  be  concerned  in  the  speculation. 
This  gave  "great  joy"  to  Watt,  and  he  wished  Dr.  Roebuck  to  con- 
sent. But  the  latter  "  grew  more  tenacious  of  the  project  the  nearer 
it  approached  to  certainty,"  and  he  only  proposed  to  Bouiton  to 
allow  him  a  share  in  the  engine  for  the  counties  of  Warwick,  Stafford, 
and  Derby.  The  letter  which  Bouiton  wrote  to  Watt  upon  the  occa- 
sion (Feb.  7,  1769)  shows  how  clearly  he  saw  what  was  required  to 
render  the  invention  available  : — 

I  was  excited  by  two  motives  to  offer  you  my  assistance,— wlilch  were, 
love  of  you,  and  love  of  a  money-getting,  Ingenious  project.  1  presumed  ih-dt 
your  engine  would  require  money,  very  accurate  workmanship,  and  exten- 
sive correspondence,  to  make  it  turn  out  to  the  hest  advantage  ;  and  that  the 
best  means  of  keeping  up  the  reputation,  and  doing  the  mventlon  justice, 
would  be  to  keep  the  executive  part  out  of  the  hands  of  the  multitude  of 
empirical  engineers,  who,  from  Ignorance,  want  of  experience,  and  want  of 
necessary  convenience,  would  be  very  liable  to  produce  bad  and  inaccurate 
workmanship,— ail  which  deficiencies  would  affect  the  reputation  of  the 
Invention.  'I'o  remedy  which,  and  to  produce  the  most  profit,  my  idea  was  to 
settle  a  manufactory  near  to  ray  own,  oy  the  side  of  our  canal,  where  I  would 
erect  all  the  conveniences  necessary  for  the  completion  of  engrlnes,  and  from 


JAXIES  WATT.  29 

whlcli  manufacrtory  we  would  serve  all  tlie  world  with  engines  or  all  sizes. 
By  these  means,  and  your  assistance,  we  would  engage  and  Instruct  some 
excellent  workmen,  who  (with  more  excellent  tools  than  would  he  worth 
any  man's  while  to  procure  for  one  single  engine)  could  execute  the  invention 
twenty  per  cent  cheaper  than  it  would  be  otherwise  executed,  and  witli  as 
great  a  difference  of  accuracy  as  there  is  between  the  blacksmith  and  the 
mathematical-instrument  maker.  It  would  not  be  worth  my  while  to  make 
for  three  counties  only;  but  I  flad  it  very  well  worth  my  while  to  make  for 
all  the  world. 

This  was  precisely  the  plan  which  was  ultimately  adopted.  Watt, 
when  he  read  it,  must  have  been  more  than  ever  urgent  to  have 
Boulton  for  a  coadjutor,  and  he  again,  in  September,  1769,  pressed 
upon  Roebuck  the  wisdom  of  admitting  him  into  the  partnership. 
In  November,  Roebuck  proposed  to  make  over  a  third  of  the  patent 
to  Mr.  Boulton  or  Dr.  Small  for  any  sum,  not  less  than  £1,000, 
which  they  should  think  reasonable,  after  the  experiments  on  the 
engine  were  finished.  They  were  to  take  their  final  resolution  at 
the  end  of  a  year  ;  but  though  they  assented  to  the  terms,  no 
agreement  seems  to  have  been  made  at  the  conclusion  of  the  twelve- 
month ;  and  it  was  not  till  ruin  drove  Roebuck  to  sell  his  share, 
that  the  bargain  was  struck.  Then  he  transferred  his  entire  prop- 
erty in  the  patent  to  Mr.  Boulton  in  the  latter  half  of  1773,  in  con- 
sideration of  being  released  from  a  debt  of  £630,  and  receiving  the 
first  £1,000  of  profit  from  the  engine.  **  My  heart  bleeds  for  his 
situation,"  Watt  wrote  to  Boulton,  "and  I  can  do  nothing  to  help 
him.  I  stuck  by  him  till  I  have  much  hurt  myself.  I  can  do  so 
no  longer  ;  my  family  calls  for  my  care  to  provide  for  them.  Yet, 
if  I  have,  I  cannot  see  the  Doctor  in  want,  which  I  am  afraid  will 
soon  be  the  case."  The  situation  of  this  able,  upright,  and  enter- 
prising man,  who  deserved  a  better  fate,  was  not,  in  the  opinion  of 
his  assignees,  rendered  worse  by  the  sale  of  his  share  in  the  steam- 
engine,  for  they  did  not  value  it  at  a  single  farthing.  Even  Watt 
said  that  Boulton  had  got  one  bad  debt  in  exchange  for  another. 

This  was  the  turning-point  in  Watt's  fortunes.  It  was  the  imper- 
fect workmanship,  and  ineffective  superintendence,  which  had 
caused' the  failure  of  so  many  experiments,  and  the  wise  and  vig- 
orous management  of  Mr.  Boulton  was  soon  to  show  the  engine  in 
its  true  powers.  But^  before  Watt  enjoyed  this  triumph,  he 
had  another  bitter  cup  to  drink.  He  was  suddenly  summoned 
to  Glasgow  in  the  autumn  'of  1773,  when  on  a  survey  of  the 
Caledonian  Canal,  by  intelligence  of  the  illness  of  his  wife.  The 
journey  was  dreary,  through  a  country  without  roads.  **An 
incessant  rain,"  said  he,  '*kept  me  for  three  days  as  wet  as 
water  could  make  me  ;  I  could  hardly  preserve  my  journal 
book."  On  reaching  home  he  found  his  wife  had  died  in  childbed. 
She  had  struggled  with  him  through  poverty,  had  often  cheered  his 
fainting  spirit  when  borne  down  by  doubt,  perplexity,  and  dis- 
appointment ;  and  often  afterwards  he  paused  on  the  threshold  of 


30  BRIEF  BIOGEAPHIES. 

his  house,  unable  to  summon  courage  to  enter  the  room  where  he 
was  never  more  to  meet  "  the  comfort  of  his  life,"  *•  Yet  this  mis- 
fortune," he  wrote  to  Small,  *' might  have  fallen  upon  me  when  I 
had  less  ability  to  bear  it,  and  my  poor  childen  might  have  been 
left  suppliants  to  the  mercy  of  the  wide  world.  I  know  that  grief 
has  its  period  ;  but  I  have  much  to  suffer  first."  **  None  of  the  many 
trying  calamities,"  he  said,  fifteen  years  afterwards,  "to  which 
human  nature  is  subjected,  bears  harder  or  longer  on  a  thinking 
mind  than  that  grief  which  arises  from  the  loss  of  friends.  But, 
like  other  evils,  it  must  be  endured  with  patience.  The  most  pow- 
erful remedy  is  to  apply  to  business  or  amusements  which  call  the  ' 
mind  from  its  sorrows  aud  prevent  it  from  preying  on  itself.  In  the 
fullness  of  our  grief  we  are  apt  to  think  that  allowing  ourselves  to 
pursue  objects  which  may  turn  our  minds  from  the  object  it  is  but 
too  much  occupied  with,  is  like  a  kind  of  insult  or  want  of  affection 
for  the  deceased,  but  we  do  not  then  argue  fairly  ;  our  duty  to  the 
departed  has  come  to  a  period,  but  our  duty  to  our  living  family,  to 
ourselves,  and  to  the  world,  still  subsists,  and  the  sooner  we  can 
bring  ourselves  to  attend  to  it  the  more  meritorious.  Upon  these 
wise  sentiments  he  endeavored,  though  not  veiy  successfully,  to 
act.  To  work  was  in  some  degree  within  the  power  of  his  will,  but 
to  regain  the  elasticity  of  the  mind  was  beyond  the  reach  of  self- 
control.  *•  Man's  life,  you  say,"  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Small,  in  Decem- 
ber, 1773,  "  must  be  spent  either  in  labor  or  ennui  ;  mine  is  spent 
in  both.  I  am  heart-sick  of  this  country  ;  I  am  indolent  to  excess, 
and,  what  alarms  me  most,  I  grow  stupider.  My  memory  fails  me 
so  as  often  totally  to  forget  occurrences  of  not  very  ancient  dates.  I 
see  myself  condemned  to  a  life  of  business  ;  nothing  can  be  more 
disagreeable  to  me  ;  I  tremble  when  I  hear  the  name  of  a  man  I 
have  any  transactions  to  settle  with.  The  engineering  business  is 
not  a  vigorous  plant ;  we  are  in  general  very  poorly  paid.  This  last 
year  my  whole  gains  do  not  exceed  £200."  But  the  darkest  hour, 
it  is  said,  is  nearest  the  dawn.  Watt  had  passed  through  a  long 
night,  and  a  gleam  of  sunshine  was  at  hand.  He  was  urged  to  pro- 
ceed to  Birmingham  to  superintend  the  manufacture  of  his  engines, 
one  of  which  was  nearly  completed.  He  arrived  at  Birmingham  in 
the  summer  of  1774,  and  in  December  he  wrote  to  his  father,  now 
an  old  man,  still  resident  at  Greenock  :  "  The  business  I  am  here 
about  has  turned  out  rather  successful ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the  fire- 
engine  I  have  invented  is  now  going,  and  answers  much  better  than 
any  other  that  has  yet  been  made,  and  I  expect  that  the  invention 
will  be  very  beneficial  to  me."  Such  was  Watt's  modest  announce- 
ment of  the  practical  success  of  the  greatest  invention  of  the  eight- 
eenth century ! 

His  partner,  who  proved  himself  such  an  able  second,  had  the  rare 
quality  of  a  first-rato  man  of  business.     Mr.  Boulton  was  not  a  mere 


JAMES  WATT.  $1 

bnyer  and  seller,  but  a  great  designer,  contriver,  and  organizer. 
His  own  original  trade  was  that  of  a  manufacturer  of  plated  goods, 
ormolu,  and  works  in  steel.  He  subsequently  turned  his  attention 
to  improving  themachinery  for  coining,  and  attained,  saysM.  Arago, 
to  such  rapidity  and  perfection  of  execution,  that  he  was  employed 
by  the  British  Government  to  recoin  the  whole  copper  specie  of  *^the 
kingdom.  His  methods  were  established,  under  his  superintend- 
ence, in  several  mints  abroad,  as  well  as  in  the  National  Mint  of 
England.  With  a  keen  eye  for  details,  he  combined  a  large  and 
comprehensive  grasp  of  intellect.  Whilst  his  senses  were  so  acute 
that,  sitting  in  his  office  at  Soho,  he  could  at  once  detect  the  slightest 
derangement  in  the  machinery  of  his  vast  establishment,  his  pov/er 
of  imagination  enabled  him  to  look  along  extensive  lines  of  possible 
action  throughout  Europe,  America,  and  the  Indies.  He  was  equally 
skillful  in  the  fabrication  of  a  button  and  in  the  establishment  of  the 
motive  power  that  was  to  revolutionize  the  industrial  operations  of  the 
world.  In  short,  he  was  a  man  of  various  gifts,  nicely  balanced  and 
proportioned, — the  best  of  tradesmen,  a  patron  of  art  and  science, 
the  friend  of  philosophers  and  statesmen.  With  all  his  independent 
titles  to  distinction,  he  esteemed  the  steam-engine  of  his  friend  the 
pride  of  his  establishment.  Once,  when  he  was  in  the  company  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  he  said,  in  reply  to  some  remark  :  '*  That's  like  the 
old  saying.  In  every  corner  of  the  world  you  will  find  a  Scot,  a  rat, 
and  a  Newcastle  grindstone."  This  touched  the  national  spirit  of 
the  novelist,  and  he  retorted,  **  You  should  have  added,  and  a  Brum- 
magem  button."  **  We  make  something  better  in  Birmingham  than 
buttons,"  replied  Boulton,— **  w^e  make  steam-engines  ;"  and  when 
he  next  met  Scott,  he  showed  that  he  had  not  forgiven  the  disparag- 
ing remark.  Boswell,  who  visited  Soho  in  1776,  shortly  after  the 
manufacture  of  steam-engines  had  been  commenced  there,  was 
struck  by  the  vastness  and  contrivance  of  the  machinery.  **I  shall 
never  forget,"  he  says,  *'Mr.  Boulton's  expression  to  me,  when  sur- 
veying the  works  :  '  I  sell  here,  sir,  what  all  the  world  desires  to 
have, — POWER.'  *'  **  He  had,"  continues  Boswell,  "about  seven  hun- 
dred people  at  work.  I  contemplated  him  as  an  iron  chieftain  ;  and 
he  seemed  to  be  a  father  of  his  tribe.  One  of  the  men  came  to  him 
complaining  grievously  of  his  landlord  for  having  distrained  his 

foods.  *  Your  landlord  is  in  the  right,  Smith,'  said  Boulton  ;  *but 
'11  tell  you  what, — tind  you  a  friend  who  will  lay  down  one-half  of 
your  rent,  and  I'll  lay  "down  the  other,  and  you  shall  have  your 
goods  again.' "  Mrs.  Schimmel-Penninck,  a  native  of  Birmingham, 
gives,  in  her  autobiography,  a  lively  description  of  his  person.  *'  He 
was  tall,  and  of  a  noble  appearance  ;  his  temperament  was  sanguine, 
with  that  slight  mixture  of  the  phlegmatic  which  imparts  calmness 
and  dignity;  his  manners  were  eminently  open  and  cordial;  he  took 
the  lead  in  conversations,  and,  with  a  social  heart,  had  a  grandiose 
manner  like  that  arising  from  position,  wealth,  and  habitual  com- 


3a  BRIEF  BIOaRAPHIES. 

inandL.  He  went  among  his  people  like  a  monarch  bestowing 
largess. " 

Not  long  after  Watt  settled  at  Birmingham,  he  married  hisseo* 
ond  wife,  Miss  Macgregor,  the  daughter  of  a  citizen  of  Glasgow. 
The  precise  date  of  the  marriage  is  not  stated  by  Mr.  Muirhead,  but 
it  seems  to  have  been  in  1776,  and  at  any  rate  took  place  too  early 
to  render  possible  an  incident  told  by  Mrs.  Schimmel-Penninck, 
that  when  Watt  was  mourning  the  loss  of  his  nrst  wife,  Miss  Macgregor 
— then  a  girl,  according  to  the  story,  three  or  Ibur  years  old  — **  came 
up  to  his  knee,  and  looking  in  his  face,  begged  him  not  to  grieve,  foi 
she  would  be  his  little  wife,  and  make  him  happy."  This  lady  waf 
a  thrifty  Scotch  housewife,  and  such  was  her  passion  for  cleanli- 
ness, that  she  taught  her  pet  dogs  to  wipe  their  feet  upon  the  door- 
mat. Her  propensity  was  carried  to  a  pitch  which  often  fretted 
her  son  by  the  restraints  it  imposed;  and  once  when  a  lady  apolo* 
gized  to  him  for  the  confusion  in  which  he  found  her  house,  he 
exclaimed,  *.'  I  love  dirt .'"  But  Mrs.  Watt  was  a  partner  worthy  oi 
her  husband,  and  with  the  revival  of  his  domestic  felicity,  and 
surrounded  by  all  the  appliances  for  perfecting  his  steam-engine, 
he  was  for  a  brief  space  in  a  happier  position  than  he  had  enjoyed 
for  many  years  past. 

The  mechanics  of  Birmingham  were  the  chief  workers  in  metal  in 
England.  The  best  tools  and  arms  of  the  kingdom  had  been  man- 
ufactured there  almost  from  time  immemorial,  and  the  artisans 
possessed  an  aptitude  for  skilled  manipulation  which  had  descended 
to  them  from  their  fathers,  like  an  inheritance.  Watt,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  found  to  his  sorrow  that  there  was  no  such  class  of  work- 
men in  Scotland.  The  consequence  was,  that  the  very  first  engine 
erected  at  Soho  was  a  greater  triumph  than  all  that  Watt  had  pre- 
viously been  able  to  accomplish.  Some  of  the  most  valuable  cop- 
per mines  in  Cornwall  had  been  drowned  out ;  Boulton  immedi- 
ately wrote  to  the  miners,  and  informed  them  of  the  success  of  the 
new  invention.  A  deputation  of  Cornish  miners  went  down  to 
Birmingham  to  look  at  the  engine.  There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to 
its  efficiency,  but  it  was  dear,  and  it  was  some  time  before  any 
orders  were  given,  Boulton  saw  that,  to  produce  any  large  result, 
he  must  himself  supply  the  capital,  and  he  entered  into  an  arrange- 
ment with  the  miners;  by  which  he  agreed  to  be  at  the  whole  cost, 
provided  he  was  allowed  as  royalty  one-third  of  the  value  of  the  ascer- 
tained saving  of  coal,  as  compared  with  Nevvcomen's  best  engine. 
The  bargain  having  been  struck,  Watt  went  into  Cornwall  to  super- 
intend the  work.  The  impression  produced  by  one  of  the  earliest  en- 
gines he  erected  is  thus  described  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Boulton: 
"The  velocity,  violence,  magnitude,  and  horrible  noise  of  the 
engine,  give  unusual  satisfaction  to  all  beholders,  believers  or  not.  I 
have  once  or  twice  trimmed  the  engine  to  end  its  strokes  gently  and 
make  less  noise  ;  but  Mr. cannot  sleep  unless  it  seems  quite 


JA^IES  WATT.  3'3 

furions,  so  I  have  left  it  to  the  engineman.  And,  by  the  by,  the 
noise  seems  to  convey  great  ideas  of  its  power  to  the  ignorant,  who 
seem  to  be  no  more  taken  with  modest  merit  in  an  engine  than  in  a 
man."  Whilst  in  Cornwall  Watt,  whose  mechanical  ingenuity  was 
inexhaustible,  invented  a  counter  to  ascertain  the  saving  effected. 
It  was  attached  to  the  main  beam  and  marked  the  number  of  strokes, 
which  was  the  measure  of  the  payment.  The  register,  which  was 
c(5ntrived  to  keep  the  record  for  an  entire  year,  was  inclosed  in  a 
locked  box,  and  thus  fraud  was  prevented.  It  was  shortly  found 
that  the  saving  of  coal  by  the  new  engine  was  nearly  three-foutths 
of  the  whole  quantity  formerly  consumed,  or  equal  to  an  annual 
saving  on  the  Chacewater  engine  of  £7,200.  Such  a  result  did  not 
failto  tell,  and  orders  for  engines  soon  came  in  at  Soho  ;  but  the 
capital  invested  by  Mr.  Bouiton  amounted  to  some  £47,000,  before 
&ny  profits  began  to  be  derived  from  their  sale. 

As  some  years  had  been  expended  in  unremunerative  experiments 
one  of  the  first  necessities,  when  it  was  apparent  that  the  engine 
could  be  made  to  answer,  was  to  obtain  an  extension  of  the  patent, 
and  in  1775  an  Act  of  Parliament  was  passed  to  preserve  the  rights  of 
the  i)atentees  till  the  year  1800,  in  consideration  of  the  great  utility 
of  the  invention,  and  the  trouble  and  expense  incurred  in  complet- 
ing it.  It  was  long  before  it  yielded  any  return.  In  1780  Watt  and 
Bouiton  were  still  out  of  pocket,  and  in  1783  they  had  not  realized 
a  profit.  But  the  extension  of  the  patent  gave  a  stimulus  to  the 
busy  brain  of  the  inventor;  and  he  continued  to  devise  improve- 
ment upon  improvement.  The  application  of  the  powers  of  steam 
to  give  a  rotatory  motion  to  mills,  had  from  the  first  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  his  particular  attention,  and  in  his  patent  of  1769  he  described 
a  method  of  producing  continued  movement  in  one  direction,  which 
Mr,  Bouiton  proposed  to  employ  for  working  boats  along  the  canals. 
A  continuous  movement  of  machinery  had  indeed  to  some  extent 
been  secured  by  the  use  of  the  steam-engine,  which  was  employed 
to  pump  up  water,  the  fall  of  which  turned  water-wheels  in  the-usual 
way.  But  Watt's  object  was  to  efi'ect  this  by  the  direct  action  of  the, 
engine  itself,  and  thus  to  supersede,  in  a  great  measure,  the  use  of 
water,  as  well  as  of  animal  power.  This  he  at  length  accomplished 
by  contrivances  which  are  embodied  in  the  patents  he  took  out  be- 
tween the  years  1781  and  1785.  Among  other  devices,  these  patents 
include  the  rotatory  motion  of  the  sun  and  planet- wheels,  the  ex- 
pansive principle  of  working  steam,  the  doable  engine,  the  parall.l 
motion,  the  smokeless  farnace,  and  the  governor, — the  whole  form-, 
ing  a  series  of  beautiful  inventions,  combining  the  results  of  phil- 
osophical research  and  mechanical  ingenuity  to  an  extent,  we  be- 
lieve, without  a  parallel  in  modern  times. 

The  idea  of  the  double-acting  engine  occurred  to  Watt  in  1767, 
but  he  kept  it  back  in  consequence  of  the  difficulty  "he  had  encoun- 
tered in  teaching  others  the  construction  and  use  of  the  single  engine 

B(;OGR<LPHL£^  2 


34  BRIEF  BIOGBAPHIES. 

ftnd  in  oyercoming  prejudices;'*  in  the  single  engine  the  force 
which  drew  up  tho  piston  was  the  counterpoise  on  the  pump- 
gear,  which  merely  sufficed  to  put  the  piston  in  a  position  for  the 
effective  down-stroke.  The  working  powers  of  the  engine  were 
therefore  idle  during  half  the  time,  or  while  the  piston  was  ascend- 
ing. By  making  the  upper  part  of  the  cylinder  as  well  as  the  lower 
communicate  with  the  condenser,  he  alternately  formed  a  vacuum 
above  and  below,  and  the  piston  in  its  ascending  stroke,  beyond  tte 
addition  of  its  own  weight,  experienced  no  more  resistance  than  it 
had  previously  done  in  the  down-stroke.  V/hile  the  steam  was  con- 
densing at  the  top  of  the  cylinder  fresh  steam  was  let  in  below,  and 
drove  the  piston  up.  The  process  was  then  reversed.  The  steam  at 
the  bottom  of  the  cylinder  was  condensed,  and  fresh  steam  was  let 
in  at  the  top  to  drive  the  piston  down.  Thus  every  movement  was 
one  of  working  power,  and  time  was  no  longer  lost  while  the  engine 
was  employed,  as  it  were,  in  gathering  up  its  strength  for  the  stroke. 
The  expansive  principle,  which  effects  an  immense  saving  of  steam, 
also  occurred  to  Watt  as  early  as  1767.  It  simply  consists  in  cut- 
ting off  the  How  of  steam  from  the  boiler  when  the  cylinder  is  partly 
filled,  and  allowing  the  rest  of  the  stroke  to  be  accomplished  by  the 
expansive  power  of  the  steam  already  supplied.  As  the  elastic  or 
moving  force  of  the  steam  diminishes  as  it  expands,  a  stroke  of  the 
piston  upon  this  plan  is  not  as  powerful  as  a  stroke  upon  the  old; 
but  the  saving  of  steam  is  in  a  much  greater  proportion  than  the 
diminution  of  the  power. 

The  circumstances  connected  with  the  invention  of  the  sun  and 
.planet  motion  are  illustrative  of  Watt's  fertility  of  resources.  The  best 
method  of  securing  continuous  rotution  which  occurred  to  him  was 
the  crank,  — not,  as  he  says,  an  original  invention,  for  *  *  the  true  inven- 
tor of  the  crank  rotative  motion  was  the  man,  who  unfortunately  has 
not  been  deified,  that  first  contrived  tho  common  foot-lathe.  The 
applying  it  to  the  engine  was  merely  taking  a  knife  to  cut  cheese 
which  had  been  made  to  cut  bread."  Models  of  a  plan  for  adapting 
it  to  the  steam-engine  were  constructing  at  Soho,  when  one  Saturday 
evening  a  number  of  the  workmen,  according  to  custom,  proceeded 
to  drink  their  ale  at  the  Wagon  and  Horses,  a  little  low-browed,  old- 
fashioned  public-house,  still  standing  in  the  village  of  Handsworth, 
close  to  Soho.  As  the  beer  began  to  tell,  one  Cartwright,  a  pattern- 
maker, who  was  afterwards  hanged,  talked  of  Watt's  contrivance  for 
producing  rotatory  motion,  and  to  illustrate  his  meaning  proceeded 
to  make  a  sketch  of  the  crank  upon  the  kitchen  table*  with  a  bit  of 
chalk.  A  person  in  the  assumed  garb  of  a  workman,  who  sat  in  the 
kitchen  corner  and  greedily  drank  in  the  account,  posted  off  to 
London,  and  forthwith  secured  a  patent  for  the  crank,  which  Watt, 
•'  being  much  engaged  in  other  business,  "had  neglected  to  do  at  the 
xnoment.  He  was  exceedingly  wroth  at  the  piracy,  averring  that 
TN'asbrougli   had   "stolon  the*  invention  from   him   by   the    most 


JAMES  WATT.  »£r 

infamous  means; ^  but  he  was  never  at  fiiult,  and,  reriving  an  old 
idea  he  had  conceived,  he  perfected  in  a  few  weeks  his  Sun  and 
Planet  motion.  Eventually,  however,  when  Wasbrough's  patent  had 
expired,  Watt  reverted  to  the  employment  of  the  simpler  crank, 
because  of  its  less  liability  to  get  out  of  order.  Its  mere  adaptation 
to  the  steam-engine  ought  not  to  have  been  x^rotected  by  a  patent  at 
all,  any  more  tlian  the  knife  which  was  made  to  cut  bread  should  bw 
capable  of  being  patented  for  every  new  substance  to  which  its  edge 
is  applied. 

The  mode  by  which  Watt  secured  the  accurate  rectilinear  motion 
of  the  ascending  and  descending  piston-rod,  by  means  of  the  Parallel 
Motion,  has  been  greatly  and  justly  admired,  **  My  soul,"  he  said, 
"abhors  calculations,  geometry,  and  all  other  abstract  sciences;*'  but 
when  an  end  was  to  be  gained,  he  could  apply  the  principles  of 
geometry  with  exquisite  skill.  The  object  was  to  contrive  that, 
whilst  the  end  of  the  beam  was  moving  alternately  up  and  down  in 
part  of  a  circle,  the  end  of  the  piston-rod  connected  with  it  should 
preserve  a  perfectly  perpendicular  direction.  This  was  accomplished 
by  means  which  can  hardly  be  made  intelligible  in  mere  verbal 
description;  but  so  beautiful  is  the  movement,  that  Watt  said  that 
when  he  saw  his  device  in  action  he  received  from  it  the  same 
pleasure  that  usually  accompanies  the  first  view  of  the  invention  of 
another  person.  "Though  I  am  not  over  anxious  after  fame,"  he 
wrote  in  1808,  "yet  I  am  more  proud  of  the  parallel  motion  than  of 
any  other  mechanical  contrivance  I  have  ever  made." 

In  spit-eof  the  outward  success  which  attended  Watt,  his  disposi- 
tlon  did  not  permit  him  to  be  happy  in  the  midst  of  bustle  and 
rivalries.  "  The  struggles, "  he  wrote  to  Dr.  Black  in  December,  1778, 
"which  we  have  had  with  natural  difficulties,  and  with  the  ignorance, 
prejudices,  and  villainies  of  mankind,  have  been  very  great;  but  I 
hope  are  now  nearly  come  to  an  end."  In  this  hope  he  was  disap- 
pointed, for  they  continued  unabated.  The  perpetual  thought  which 
the  engine  required  to  bring  it  to  perfection,  and  the  large  corre- 
spondence in  which  the  business  of  the  establishment  involved  him, 
had  to  be  performed  under  the  oppression  of  those  sick-headaches 
which  were  the  bane  of  his  existence.  He  was  sometimes  so  over- 
come by  them,  that  he  would  sit  by  the  fireside  for  hours  together, 
with  his  head  leaning  on  his  elbow,  and  scarcely  able  to  utter  a 
word.  In  1782  his  father  died,  and  his  inevitable  absence  from  his 
bedside  weighed  upon  his  spirits.  His  despondency  gathered 
strength  with  years, till  in  1788  it  appeared  to  have  reached  its  climax. 
"In  the  anguish  of  his  mind,  amid  the  vexations  occasioned  by  new 
and  unsuccessful  schemes,  like  Lovelace,  I  *  curse  my  inventions/ 
and  almost  wish,  if  w©  could  gather  our  money  together,  that  some- 
body else  should  succeed  in  getting  our  trade  from  us."  So  he  wrote 
to  Mr.  Boulton  in  April,  and  in  June  his  account  of  himself  was  sad- 
der still:  "I  have  been  quite  effete  and  listlese,  neither  daring  to  face 


86    '  BBIEF  BIOGKAPHIKa 

business  nor  capable  of  it;  my  head  and  memory  failing  me  mnch; 
my  stable  of  hobby-horses  pulled  down,  and  the  horses  given  to  the 
dogs  for  carrion.  I  have  had  serious  thoughts  of  throwing  down  the 
burden  I  find  myself  unable  to  carry,  and,  perhaps,  if  other  senti- 
ments  had  not  been  stronger,  should  have  thought  of  throwing  off 
the  mortal  coil.  Solomon  said  that  in  the  increase  of  knowledge 
there  is  increase  of  sorrow:  if  ho  had  substituted  business  for  know- 
ledge it  would  have  been  perfectly  true."  These  wailing  notes  of  a 
mind  radically  wretched  were  renewed  by  the  attempts  to  pirate  his 
inventions.  Watt  was  so  fruitful  in  contrivances,  that  the  fortunes 
of  many  ordinasT"  mechanicians  were  made  by  their  pickings  and 
stealings  from  him.  When  he  was  an  unknown  Glasgow  artisan, 
his  drawing-ijjiachine  had  been  boldly  appropriated  by  a  London 
mathematical-instrument  maker;  his  micrometer  had  been  purloined 
by  another  pilferer  of  the  same  class;  his  crank  had  been  stolen 
from  him  through  the  instrumentality  of  his  own  workmen;  and  now 
the  pirates  were  endeavoring  to  make. a  prize  of  the  condensing-en- 
gine  itself;  which  had  cost  him  full  twenty  years  of  anxiety  and  labor. 
The  Cornish  miners  especially,  who  had  derived  immense  pecuniary 
advantages  from  its  adoption,  sought  on  the  most  frivolous  pretenses 
to  evade  the  payment  of  that  portion  of  the  saving  which  they  had 
stipulated  to  pay  to  Boulton  and  Watt.  A  baser  instance  of  unprin- 
cipled greediness  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  trade. 
**  We  have  been  so  beset  with  plagiaries,"  Watt  wrote  to  Dr.  Black, 
"  that,  if  I  had  not  a  very  good  memory  of  my  doing  it,  their  impu- 
dent assertions  would  lead  me  to  doubt  whether  I  was  the  author  of 
any  improvement  on  the  steam-engine,  and  the  ill-will  of  those  we 
have  most  essentially  sers'ed,  whether  such  improvements  have  not 
been  highly  prejudicial  to  the  commonwealth  !"  Though  the  pat- 
entees were  invariably  successful,  the  vindication  of  their  rights 
proved  a  heavy  fine;  their  legal  expenses  during  only  the  last  four 
years  of  their  patent  having  amounted  to  between  five  and  six  thou- 
sand pounds.  The  peace  of  mind  which  the  lawsuits  cost  Watt  was  far 
more  serious  than  the  cost  in  money.  His  feelings  during  the  pend- 
ing trial  of  1796  are  described  by  himself  as  less  acute  than  what  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  undergo  on  more  insignificant  occasions. 
"  Yet  I  remained,"  he  says,  **  after  the  trial,  nearly  as  much  depressed 
as  if  we  had  lost  it.  The  stimulus  to  action  was  fione,  and  but  for 
the  attentions  of  my  friends  I  ran  some  risk  of  falling  into  stupid- 
ity." In  1803,  *' after  he  had  retired  with  a  very  moderate  fortune 
that  he  might  enjoy  the  quiet  for  which  alone  he  was  fitted,"  ho  as- 
cribed ]iis  incapacity  for  lui-tber  exertion  *'to  the  vexation  ho  had 
endured  for  man 3'  years  from  his  harassing  lawsuit."  Whoever  is 
tempted  to  envy  a  great  inventor  would  surely  be  cured  of  his  pas- 
sion by  the  contemplation  of  the  life  of  him  who  was  the  chief  of  the 
race.  V/hilst  he  was  strusrgling  with  difficulties  at  Glasgow,  his 
friend  Dr.  Hutton  had  strongly  dissuaded  him  from  proceeding  fur- 


JAMES  WATT.  97 

ther  with  his  tinprofitable  and  distressing  work.  *•  Invention, "  said 
he,  "is  only  for  those  who  live  by  the  public;  or  who,  from  pride, 
would  choose  to  leave  a  legacy  to  the  pnblic.  It  is  not  a  thing  that 
will  pay,  under  a  system  where  the  rule  is  to  be  best  paid  for  the 
thing  that  is  easiest  done."  But  to  invent  was  the  habitual  opera- 
tion of  Watt's  intellect,  and  neither  the  admonitions  of  friends,  nor 
his  experience  of  the  miseries  it  entailed  upon  him,  could  turn  his 
mind  aside  from  its  natural  bent. 

Among  his  minor  works,  the  contrivance  of  which  formed  the 
pastime  of  his  leisure  hours,  were  his  machine  for  copying  letters, 
his  instrument  for  measuring  the  specific  gravity  of  fluids,  his  regu- 
lator lamp,  his  plan  of  heating  buildings  by  steam,  and  his  machine 
for  drying  linen,  invented  for  his  father-in-law,  Mr.  Macgregor.  a 
dyer  at  Glasgow.  He  was  also  occupied  with  speculations  respecting 
an  arithmetical  machine,  and  early  threw  out  the  suggestion  of  a 
spiral  oar  for  the  propulsion  of  ships.  His  specification  of  the  steam- 
engine  included  a  steam-carriage  lor  use  on  common  roads,  and  he 
had  many  discussions  with  bis  assistant,  William  Murdock,  and  his 
friend,  Lovell  Edgeworth,  on  the  subject. 

His  residence  at  Birmingham  was  greatly  cheered  by  the  society  of 
men  of  eminence  in  science,  literature,  and  art.  Boulton  and  himself 
formed  a  center  of  attraction  to  many  kindred  minds,  and  the  meet- 
ings of  the  Lunar  Society,  at  Soho  House,  were  long  remembered  as 
am'ong  the  most  delightful  things  of  their  kind.  Lovell  Edgeworth, 
himself  a  member,  has  thus  described  the  group:  "Mr.  Keir,  with 
his  knowledge  of  the  world  and  good  sense;  Dr.  Small,  with  his 
benevolence  and  profound  sagacity;  Wedgwood,  with  his  unceasing 
industry,  experimental  variety,  and  calm  investigation;  Boulton^ 
with  his  mobility,  quick  perception,  and  bold  adventure;  Watt,  with 
his  strong  inventive  faculty,  undeviating  steadiness,  and  large 
resources;  Darwin,  with  his  imagination,  science,  and  poetical  excel- 
lence ;  and  Day,  with  his  unwearied  research  after  truth,  his  integrity, 
and  eloquence, — formed,  altogether,  such  a  society  as  few  men  have 
had  the  good  fortune  to  live  with. — such  an  assemblage  of  friends  as 
fewer  still  have  had  the  happiness  to  possess  and  keep  through  life." 
To  these  distinguished  members  others  were  afterwards  added, 
among  whom  may  be  mentioned  Dr.  Priestley,  the  discoverer  of 
oxygen  ai^d  other  gases  ;  Mr.  Galton  the  ornithologist,  and  Dr. 
AYithering  the  botanist.  In  the  meetings  of  this  society  originated 
Watt's  experiments  on  water;  and  it  is  now  placed  beyond  a  doubt, 
that  he  was  the  first  to  promulgatethetruetheory  of  its  composition, 
though  Cavendish  had  arrived,  by  independent  research,  at  the  same 
result. 

The  designation  of  "Lunar  Society"  was  converted  into  "Lunatic 
Society  "  by  the  people,  and  when  the  riots  of  1791  broke  out,  one  of 
the  watchwords  of  the  mob  was,  "No  philosophers!"  Sir  Samuel 
Bomilly  says  that  some  persons  even  painted  the  denunciation  on 


58  BPJEF  BIOGRAPPIIES. 

their  houses.  The  Birmingham  folks,  dnring  the  last  century,  were 
certainly  good  haters.  When  the  firebrand  Dr.  Sacheverell  went 
down  to  Birmingham  and  called  upon  the  people  to  •*  build  up  Zion," 
they  responded  to  the  exhortation  by  gutting  a  Dissenters'  meeting- 
house in  the  neighborhood.  So,  again,  at  the  public  dinner  which 
was  held  in  the  town  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  French 
llevolution,  the  mob,  who  took  the  loyal  side  of  the  question,  rose, 
pulled  down  two  dissenting  meeting-houses,  and  burned  or  sacked 
the  houses  of  some  of  the  principal  inhabitants;— among  others, 
those  of  Mr.  Taylor,  one  of  the  chief  employers  of  skilled  labor  in 
the  town;  Mr.  Hutton,  the  bookseller  and  historian;  and  several 
more.  But  their  principal  fury  was  directed  against  the  *'  philoso- 
phers,"— especially  Dr.  Priestley,  whose  house  and  library  they 
destroyed,  and  were  busily  engaged  in  plundering  the  house  of  Dr. 
Withering  when  the  military  arrived.  Watt  was  included  in  the 
proscription,  and,  apprehending  an  attack  upon  his  house,  he  had 
the  Soho  workmen  armed  for  Mr.  Boulton's  defense  and  his  own. 
*•  Though  our  principles,"  said  he,  writing  to  his  friend  De  Luc, 
"are  well  known,  as  friends  to  the  established  government  and  ene- 
mies to  republican  principles,  and  should  have  been  our  protection 
from  a  mob  whose  watchword  was  *  Church  and  King,' yet  our  safety 
was  principally  owing  to  most  of  the  Dissenters  living  on  the  south 
of  the  town;  for,  after  the  first  moments,  they  did  not  seem  over  nice 
in  their  discrimination  of  religion  or  principles.  I,  among  others, 
was  pointed  out  as  a  Presbyterian,  though  I  never  was  in  a  meeting- 
house in  Birmingham,  and  Mr.  Boulton  is  well  known  as  a  Church- 
man. We  had  everything  most  portable  packed  up,  fearing  the 
worst;  however,  all  is  well  with  us."  The  circumstance  is  worth 
recording,  not  only  as  an  incident  in  the  life  of  Watt,  but  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  insane  and  ignorant  ideas  which  animate  mobs. 

Watt's  later  years  were  years  of  comparative  peace,  but  of  bereave- 
ment. One  by  one  his  early  friends  dropped  away;  the  pride  and 
hope  of  his  heart,  his  son  Gregory,  died  also;  and  the  old  man  was 
left  almost  alone.  Fragile  though  his  frame  had  been  through  life, 
he  survived  the  most  robust  among  his  associates.  Roebuck,  Boul- 
ton, Darwin,  and  Withering  went  before  him,  as  well  as  his  dear 
friends  Robison  and  Black.  Black  had  watched  to  the  last,  with 
tender  interest,  the  advancing  reputation  and  prosperity  of  his 
prot6g6.  When  Robison  returned  from  London,  and  told  him  of  the 
issue  of  Watt's  suit  with  Hornblower,  for  the  protection  of  his  patent- 
right,  the  kind  old  Doctor  was  delighted  even  to  tears.  **  It's  very 
foolish,"  he  exclaimed,  *'  but  I  can't  help  it  when  I  hear  of  an^^thing 
good  to  Jamie  Watt.'*  Watt,  in  his  turn,  said  of  Black,  "To  him  I 
owe,  in  great  measure,  my  being  what  I  am;  he  taught  me  to  rea.son 
and  experiment  in  Natural  Philosophy."  Dr.  Black  expired  so 
peacefully,  that  his  servant,  in  describing  his  death,  said  that  he  had 
•*  given  over  living,"  having  departed  with  a  basin  of  milk  upon  his 


JAMES  WATT.  39 

knee,  which  remained  unspilled.  **  We  may  all  i^ray,"  was  the  com- 
ment of  Watt,  "  that  our  latter  end  may  be  like  his;  he  has  truly  gone 
to  sleep  in  the  arms  of  his  Creator." 

Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  Watt  was  distressed  by  the  apprehen- 
*sion  that  his  mental  faculties  were  deserting  him,  and  remarked  to 
Dr.  Darwin,  "Of  all  the  evils  of  age,  the  loss  of  the  few  mental 
faculties  one  possessed  in  youth  is  the  most  grievous."  ^  To  test  his 
memory,  he  again  commenced  the  study  of  German,  which  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  forget;  and  speedily  acquired  such  proficiency  as 
enabled  him  to  read  the  language  with  comparative  ease.  But  he 
gave  stronger  evidence  of  the  integrity  of  his  powers.  When,  in  his 
seventy-fifth  year,  he  was  consulted  by  a  company  at  Glasgow  as  to 
the  mode  of  conveying  wator  from  a  peniasula  across  the  Clyde  to  the 
company's  engines  at  Dalmarnock,  a  difiiculty  which  appeared  to 
them  almost  insurmountable,  the  plan  suggested  by  Watt  proved 
that  bis  remarkable  ingenuity  remained  unimpaired  by  age.  It  v/as 
necessary  to  fit  the  pipes  through  which  the  water  passed  to  the 
uneven  and  shifting  bed  of  the  river,  and  Watt,  taking  the  tail  of  the 
lobster  for  his  model,  forwarded  a  plan  of  a  tube  of  iron  similarly 
articulated,  which  was  executed  and  laid  down  with  complete  success. 

A  few  years  later,  when  close  upon  his  eightieth  year,  the  aged 
mechanician  formed  one  of  a  party  assembled  in  Edinburgh,  at  which 
Sir  Walter  Scott  was  present.  He  delighted  the  Northern  literati 
with  his  kindly  cheerfulness,  not  less  than  he  astonished  them  by 
the  extent  and  profundity  of  his  information.  *'The  alert,  kind, 
benevolent  old  man,"  says  Scott,  "had  his  attention  aiive  to  every 
one's  question,  his  information  at  every  one's  command.  His  talents 
and  fancy  overflowed  on  every  subject.  One  gentleman  was  a  deep 
philologist, — he  talked  with  him  on  the  origin  of  tiie  alphabet,  as  if 
he  had  been  coeval  with  Cadmus;  another,  a  celebrated  critic, — you 
would  have  said  the  old  man  had  studied  political  econo.iiy  and 
belles-lettres  all  his  life;  of  SL-ience  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak, — it 
was  his  own  distinonished  w.ilk."  The  vast  extent  of  his  knowledge 
was  remarked  by  all  who  came  in  contact  with  him.  "It  seemed,'* 
says  Jeffrey,  "  as  if  every  subject  that  was  casually  started  had  been 
that  which  he  had  been  occupied  in  studying."  Yet,  though  no 
man  was  more  ready  to  communicate  knowledge,  none  could  be  less 
ambitious  of  displaying  it.  "He  v/as,''  says  Mrs.  Schimmel-Penninck, 
in  the  vivid  portrait  she  has  drawn  of  him  in  her  Autobiography, 
"one  of  the  most  complete  specimens  of  the  melancholic  tempera- 
ment. His  head  was  generally  bent  forward  or  leaning  on  his  hand 
in  meditation,  his  shoulders  stooping  and  his  chest  falling  in,  his 
limbs  lank  and  unmuscular,  and  his  complexion  sallow.  His  utter- 
ance was  slow  and  unimpassioned,  deep  and  low  in  tone,  with  a 
broad  Scottish  accent;  his  manners  gentle,  modest,  and  unassuming. 
In  a  company  where  he  was  not  known,  unless  spoken  to,  he  might 
have  tranquilly  passed  the  whole  time  in  pursuing  his  own  medita^- 


4,0  BKIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

tions.  When  he  entered  a  room,  men  of  letters,  men  of  science, 
nay,  military  men,  artists,  ladies,  even  little  children,  thronged 
round  him.  I  remember  a  celebrated  Swedish  artist  having  been 
instructed  bj'-him  that  rats*  whiskers  make  the  most  pliant  painting- 
brushes;  ladies  would  ai)peal  to  him  on  the  best  means  of  devising 
grates,  curing  smoking  chimneys,  warming  their  houses,  and  obtain- 
ing fjist  colors.  I  can  speak  from  experience  of  his  teaching  me  how 
to  make  a  dulcimer  and  improve  a  Jew's-harp."  What  Jeffrey  said 
of  the  steam-engine  maybe  applied  to  the  conversation  of  its  parent, 
ttiat,  like  the  trunk  of  an  elephant,  it  could  pick  up  a  pin  or  rend 
an  oak. 

Watt  returned  to  his  little  workshop  at  Heathfield,  to  proceed  with 
the  completion  of  his  diminishing-machine  for  copying  busts  and 
statues.  His  habit  was,  immediately  on  rising,  to  answer  all  letters 
requiring  attention;  then,  after  breakfast,  to  proceed  into  the  work- 
shop adjoining  his  bedroom,  attired  in  his  woolen  snrtout,  his 
leather  apron,  and  the  rustic  hat  which  he  had  worn  some  forty 
years,  and  there  go  on  with  his  machine.  Ho  succeeded  with  it  so 
far  as  to  produce  specimens  of  its  performances,  which  he  distributed 
amongst  his  friends,  jocularly  describing  them  as  "the  productions  of 
a  young  artist  just  entering  into  his  eighty-third  year."  But  the  hand 
of  the  workman  was  stoi)ped  by  death.  The  machine  remained 
unfinished,  and,  what  is  a  singular  testimony  to  the  skill  and  per- 
severance of  a  man  who  had  invented  so  much,  it  is  almost  his  only 
unfinished  work. 

Ho  was  fully  conscious  of  his  approaching  end,  and  expressed 
from  time  to  time  his  sincere  gratitude  to  Divine  Providence  for  the 
blessings  which  he  had  been  permitted  to  enjoj^  for  his  length  of 
days,  and  his  exemption  from  the  infirmities  of  age.  **I  am  very 
sensible."  said  he,  to  the  mourning  friends  who  had  assembled 
round  his  death-bed,  "of  the  attachment  you  show  me,  and  I  hasten 
to  thank  you  for  it,  as  I  am  now  come  to  my  last  illness."  He  passed 
quietly  away  from  the  world  on  the  19th  of  August,  1819,  in  his 
eighty-third  year.  A  statue  by  Chantrey— perhaps  the  greatest 
work  of  thatmaster — has  been  placed  in  Handsworth  Church,  where 
Watt  lies  buried,  and  justifies  the  compliment  paid  to  the  sculptor, 
that  he  *' cut  breath;"  for  when  uncovered  before  the  old  servants 
assembled  round  it  at  Soho,  it  so  powerfully  reminded  them  of  their 
master,  that  they  "  lifted  up  their  voices  and  wept."  Watt  has  been 
fortunate  in  his  monumental  honors.  The  colossal  statue  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  also  from  the  chisel  of  Chantrey,  bears  upon  it  an 
epitaph  from  the  pen  of  Brougham,  which  is  beyond  all  comparison 
the  finest  lapidary  inscription  in  the  English  language,  and  among 
its  other  signal  merits  has  on©  which  apjDertains  rather  to  its  subject 
than  its  author,  that,  lofty  as  is  the  eulogy,  every  word  of  it  is 
strictly  true. 


ROBERT  STEPHENSON. 


ABOUT  forty  years  since,  a  little  boy,  the  son  of  a  colliery  on- 
gineman  at  Killingworth,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  homely  gray 
stuff,  cut  out  by  his  father,  was  accustomed  to  ride  to  Kewcas- 
tle  daily  upon  a  donkey,  for  the  purpose  of  attending  school  there. 
Years  passed,  and  the  boy  became  a  man  knownto  world-wide  fame 
as  Hobert  Stephenson,  the  engineer.  He  died,  and  on  the  14th  of 
October,  1859,  he  was  laid  to  rest  in  Westminster  Abbey,  side  by  side 
with  the  departed  kings,  statesmen,  and  great  men  of  his  country. 

Only  ten  years  before,  the  remains  of  George  Stephenson,  the  fa- 
ther, were  quietly  interred  in  a  small  church  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town  of  Chesterfield,  followed  to  the  grave  principally  by  his  own 
work-people.  The  event  excited  little  interest  beyond  the  bounds 
of  that  secluded  locality.  Yet  George  Stephenson,  thus  obscurely 
buried,  was  the  inventor  of  the  passenger  locomotive,  and  the  founder 
of  the  now  gigantic  railway  system  of  England,  and  of  the  world: 
and  it  is  only  within  the  last  few  years  that  the  public  have  learned 
from  his  biography  how  great  a  man  then  passed  from  the  earth. 
But  the  honors  which  George  Stephenson  failed  to  receive  during 
his  life  and  at  his  death,  and  which,  in  the  strength  of  his  self-de- 
pendence, he  would  have  been  the  last  to  seek,  have  at  length  not 
unworthily  been  reflected  upon  his  eminently  meritorious  son;  and 
those  who  hereafter  read  his  tablet  and  contemplate  his  monument 
in  Westminster  Abbey  will  probably  not  fail  to  remember  that  Eob- 
ert  Stephenson  was  himself  one  of  the  best  products  of  his  great 
father's  manly  affection,  his  noble  character,  and  his.  indefatigable 
industry. 

Every  reader  now  knows  the  story  of  the  father's  life, — his  early 
encounter  with  poverty  and  difficulty,  his  strenuous  endeavors  after 
self-education,  his  determination  to  gain  "insight,"  into  all  the  details 
of  his  business,  his  patience,  his  bravery,  his  self-discipline  and  self- 
reliance.    But  greatest  #f  all  was  his  manly  Igve  f«r  his  only  son; 


42  BHIEF  BIOGRAPHIP-S. 

and  his  resolution,  formed  almost  as  soon  as  the  bo};  "was  born,  and 
steadily  acted  out  in  his  life,  that  no  labor,  nor  pains,  nor  self-denial 
should  be  spared  to  furnish  him  with  the  best  education  that  it  was 
in  his  power  to  bestow.  His  own  words  on  the  subject  are  memor- 
able. "  In  the  earlier  period  of  my  career,"  said  he,  "when  Eobert 
was  a  little  boy,  I  saw  how  deficient  I  was  in  education,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  he  should  not  labor  under  the  same  defect,  but 
that  I  would  put  him  to  a  good  school,  and  p;ive  him  a  liberal  train- 
ing. I  was,  however,  a  poor  man;  and  how  do  you  think  I  managed? 
I  betook  myself  to  mending  my  neighbors'  clocks  and  watches  at 
nights,  after  my  daily  labor  was  done,  and  thus  I  procured  the  means 
of  educating  my  son. " 

The  father,  moreover,  taught  the  son  to  work  with  him,  and 
trained  him  as  it  were  to  educate  himself.  "When  a  little  fellow  not 
big  enough  to  reach  so  high  as  to  put  a  clock-head  on,  his  fathor 
would  make  him  mount  a  chair  for  the  purpose;  and  to  ''help  fa- 
ther," became  the  proudest  work  which  the  boy  then,  and  ever  after, 
could  take  part  in.  This  daily  and  vinceasing  example  of  industry 
and  application,  working  on  before  the  boy's  eyes  in  the  person  of  a 
loving  and  beloved  father,  imprinted  itself  deeply  upon  his  mind, 
in  characters  never  to  be  effaced .  A  spirit  of  self-improvement  took 
possession  of  him,  which  continued  to  influence  him  through  life; 
and  to  the  close  of  his  career  he  was  proud  to  confess  that,  if  his  suc- 
cess had  been  great,  it  was  mainly  to  the  example  and  training  of 
his  father  that  he  owed  it. 

When  Robert  went  to  Mr.  Rruce's  school  at  Newcastle,  he  was  a 
rough,  unpolished  country  lad,  speaking  the  broad  dialect  of  tho 
pitmen;  and  the  other  boys  would  tease  him  occasionally,  for  tho 
purpose  of  provoking  an  outburst  of  his  KillingT\'orth  Doric.  But  he 
was  kindly  of  disposition,  and  a  diligent  pupil;  Mr.  Bruce  frequent- 
ly holding  him  U))to  the  laggards  of  the  school  as  an  example  of 
good  conduct  and  industry.  He  was  accustome;!  to  spend  much  of 
his  spare  time  at  the  rooms  of  the  Literary  and  Philosophical  Insti- 
tute ;  and  when  he  went  home  in  the  evenings  he  would  recount  to  his 
fathi-r  the  results  of  his  reading.  Sometimes  he  was  allowed  to  take 
to  Killingv/orth  a  volume  of  the  "Repertory  of  Arts  and  Sciences," 
v/hich  the  father  and  son  studied  together,  George  laying  creat  stress 
upon  his  son's  being  able  to  read  and  understand  the  j^lans  anddi- 
ngrams  without  reference  to  the  written  descriptions.  Sometimes 
they  tried  chemical  experiments  together,  assisted  by  Wigham,  a 
nei  jjhboring  farmer's  son;  and  occasionally  Robert  experimented  on 
his  own  account,  as,  for  instance,  upon  the  cows  in  Wi;:^ham's  in- 
closure,  which  he  electrified  by  means  of  his  electric  kite,  making 
them  run  about  the  field  with  their  tails  on  end,  and  on  an  other  oc- 
casion upon  his  father's  Galloway  when  standing  at  the  cottage  door 
nearly  knocking  the  pony  down  by  the  smartness  of  the  shock, 

George  was  ab*ut  this  time  occupied  with  the  invention  of  hU 


ROBEKT  STEPHENSON.  43 

safety  lamp,  and  Kobert  was  present  and  assisted  in  making  many  of 
the  experiments  upon  the  fire-damp  brought  from  Killingworth  pits. 
On  one  occasion,  George  was  engaged  in  experimenting  by  means 
of  a  gasometer  and  glass  receivers  borrowed  from  the  Newcastle  In- 
stitute; Nicholas  Wood  being  appointed  to  turn  the  cocks,  and  Ro- 
bert to  time  the  experiment.  The  flame  being  observed  to  descend 
in  the  tube,  the  word  was  given  to  turn  the  cock,  but  unfortunately 
Wood  turned  it  the  wrong  way,  the  gas  exploded,  and  the  appara- 
tus was  blown  to  pieces,  though  fortunately  no  one  was  hurt.  At 
other  times,  Eobert  was  engaged  in  embodying  in  a  practicl  shape 
the  drawings  of  machines  and  instruments  which  he  found  described 
in  the  books  he  read  ;  among  other  things,  constructing  a  theodo- 
lite spirit-lever,  on  which  he  engraved  the  words,  "Robert  Stephen- 
son, fecit."  Another  of  his  works,  while  he  was  at  Bruce's  school, 
was  the  sun-dial,  the  joint  work  of  father  and  son,  constructed  after 
much  study  and  labor,  and  eventually  fixed  over  the  cottage  door  at 
Killingworth,  where  it  is  still  to  be  seen.  Not  long  since  Mr.  Ste- 
phenson visited  the  place  with  some  friends,  and  jjointed  out  the  very 
desk  in  the  little  room  of  the  cottage  at  which  he  had  studied  the 
plan  of  the  dial  and  calculated  the  latitude  of  his  village. 

The  youth  left  school  v/ell  grounded  in  the  ordinary  branches  of 
education,  and  an  adept  in  arithmetic,  geography,  and  algebra. 
In  his  after  life,  he  with  good  reason  attached  much  importance  to, 
the  thorough  training  in  mathematics  which  he  received  at  Bruce's 
school,  and  considered  that  it  had  been  the  foundation  of  much  of 
his  success  as  an  engineer  in  the  higher  walks  of  the  profession. 
His  father  at  first  destined  him  for  the  business  of  a  coal-miner,  and 
with  that  object  apprenticed  him  to  Nicholas  Wood,  then  chief 
viewer  of  Killingworth.  While  thus  engaged,  Robert  acquired  a  fa- 
miliarity with  underground  work,  which  afterwards  proved  of  much 
value  to  him;  and,  in  the  evenings,  after  the  day's  work  was  over, 
he  pursued  his  studies  in  mechanics  under  the  eye  of  his  father, 
who  had  by  this  time  been  advanced  to  the  post  of  chief  engine- 
wright  of  the  colliery. 

The  Killingworth  locomotive  was  now  in  full  work,  and  Robert 
became  familiar  with  its  every  detail.  The  possible  adaptation  of  the 
engine  to  more  important  uses  than  the  hauling  of  coal  to  the  ship- 
ping-place, the  improvement  of  the  steam-blast  (employed  in  all  the 
engines  constructed  by  Stephenson  subsequent  to  the  year  1815), 
and  the  enlargement  of  the  heating  surface,  so  as  to  produce 
a  more  rapid  supply  of  steam,  formed  the  subject  of  repeated 
evening  discussions  in  the  cottage  of  the  Stepliensons.  Of  the 
two,,  the  youth  was  at  that  time  by  much  the  most  sanguine,  his 
father  "holding  him  back"  by  setting  up  all  manner  of  objections 
for  him  to  answer,  and  thus  in  the  most  effectual  way  cultivating  his 
faculties  and  stimulating  his  inventiveness.  It  was  a  happy  time 
for  both,  full  of  discipline,  co-operation,  self-improvement,  and 
8t(^ndily  advancing  nK*chanic.il  ability. 


U  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

The  father,  however,  was  not  satisfied  with  the  knowledge  which 
h's  son  might  thus  laboriouslj^  acquire  by  studying  in  company  with 
himself  at  Killingworth.  He  was  fully  conscious  of  his  own  want 
of  scientific  knowledge,  which  had  hampered  him  at  every  stage  of 
his  career.  Above  all  things,  he  desired  that  Robert  should  be  well 
grounded  in  the  principles  of  natural  science  ;  for  which  purpose 
he  felt  it  would  be  necessary  to  place  him  under  disciplined  teach- 
ers. He  resolved,  accordingly,  to  send  Robert  to  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity, where  he  spent  the  winter  and  summer  sessions  of  1820-21, 
attending  the  classes  of  Natural  Philosophy  under  Sir  John  Leslie, 
Mineralogy  under  Professor  Jamieson,  and  Chemistry  under  Dr. 
Hope.  Young  Stephenson  was  one  of  the  most  diligent  and  hard- 
working students  of  his  year.  He  took  copious  notes  of  all  the  lec- 
tures, which  he  was  accustomed  carefully  to  write  out,  and  afterwards 
to  consult,  even  to  the  close  of  his  life.  One  evening,  a  few  years 
ago,  an  engineering  friend  was  discussing  with  him  in  his  library  in 
Gloucester  Square  some  scientific  point,  when  Mr.  Stephenson  rose, 
and  took  dov/n  from  the  shelves  a  thick  volume,  for  the  purpose  of 
consulting  it.  On  the  question  being  asked,  '•  What  have  we  here  ?" 
he  replied,  "  Wiien  I  went  to  college,  I  knew  the  difficulty  my  father 
had  in  collecting  money  to  send  me  there;  before  going  I  studied 
shorthand,  and  while  at  Edinburgh  I  took  down  verbatim  every  lect- 
ure I  attended  ;  every  evening  before  I  went  to  bed  I  transcribed 
those  lectures  word  for  word,  and  you  see  the  result  in  that  range 
of  books." 

It  was  a  good  custom  of  Professor  Jamieson,  at  the  close  of  each 
session,  to  select  the  most  diligent  and  meritorious  of  his  pupils  to 
accompany  him  in  a  botanical  and  geological  excursion  over  some 
of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  Scotland;  and  Robert  Stephenson 
was  one  of  these  favored  pupils  at  the  close  of  the  session  of  1820-21. 
Only  about  a  year  before  his  death,  wTien  he  was  making  an  excur- 
sion in  his  yacht  with  a  party  of  friends  through  the  Caledonian 
Canal,  he  took  occasion  to  point  out  some  of  the  ground  which  ho 
had  gone  over  during  that  delightful  excursion  with  his  professor, 
and  he  then  expressed  the  practical  advantages  which  he  had  derived 
from  studying  the  great  works  of  the  Creator  upon  the  chart  of 
Nature  itself.  The  student's  excursion  ended,  Robert  returned  to 
Killingworth;  and  his  father  was  a  proud  man  when  his  son  reported 
the  f)rogress  he  had  made,  and,  above  all,  when  he  laid  before  him 
the  j)rize  for  mathematics  which  he  had  won  at  the  University.  The 
cost  of  the  years  education  was  about  eighty  pounds  ;  but  though  a 
large  sum  in  the  estimation  of  both  father  and  son  at  the  time, 
George  then  and  afterwards  declared  that  it  was  one  of  the  best  in- 
vestments of  money  which  he  had  ever  made. 

We  have  been  thus  particular  in  describing  the  several  stages  in 
the  education  of  Robert  Stephenson,  and  the  active  part  which  his 


ROBERT  STEPHENSON.  45 

father  took  in  the  process,  because  it  was  thus  that  the  foundations 
of  his  character  were  laid.  The  young  man  was  now  to  enter  by 
himself  upon  the  road  of  life,  fortified  by  good  example,  his  habits 
well  trained,  his  faculties  well  disciplined,  and  fully  conscious  that 
the  issue  rested  mainly  with  himself.  For  several  years  more,  how- 
ever, he  remained  under  his  father's  eye,  passing  through  the  admir- 
able discipline  of  the  workshop,  to  which  he  himself  in  after  years 
was  accustomed  to  attach  the  greatest  importance.  At  the  meeting 
of  Mechanical  Engineers,  held  at  Newcastle,  in  August,  1858,  he 
used  these  words:  "  Having  been  brought  up  originally  as  a  mechan- 
ical engineer,  and  seen  perhaps  as  much  as  any  one  of  the  other 
branches  of  the  profession,  I  feel  justified  in  insisting  that  the  civil 
engineering  department  is  best  founded  upon  the  mechanical 
knowledge  obtained  in  the  woifkshop.  I  have  ever  been  fully  con- 
scious how  greatly  my  civil  engineering  has  been  modified  by  the 
mechanical  knowledge  which  I  acquired  from  my  father;  and  the 
further  my  experience  has  advanced,  the  more  have  I  been  convinced 
that  it  is  necessary  to  educate  an  engineer  in  the  workshop.  That 
is  the  education  emphatically  which  is  calculated  to  render  the  engi- 
nGermost  intelligent,  most 'useful,  and  the  fullest  of  resources  in 
times  of  difficulty."^ 

In  182 i  George  Stephenson  was  busily  engaged  in  the  construction 
of  the  Stockton  and  Darlington  Railway;  and  at  the  same  time 
Robert  was  employed  in  dt-he  locomotive  manufactory  already  com- 
menced at  Newcastle,  in  superintending  the  construction  of  No.  1 
engine,  the  "Active,"  for  that  railway;  the  same  engine  that  was 
lately  phiced  upon  a  pedestal  in  front  of  the  Darlington  station.  He 
was  also  busy  designing  the  fixed  engine  for  the  Brusselton  incline, 
which  he  completed  by  the  end  of  the  year,  when  he  left  England 
for  a  time  to  take  charge  of  the  engines  and  machinery  of  a  mining 
company  newly  established  in  Colombia,  South  America.  Severe 
study  and  close  application  had  begun  to  tell  upon  his  health,  and 
his  father  consented  that  he  should  accept  the  situation  which  had 
been  offered  him,  in  the  hope  that  the  change  of  scene  and  occupa- 
tion might  restore  him  to  health  and  strength,  though  ill  able  to 
dispense  with  his  valuable  assistance  at  that  important  crisis  in  his 
own  career. 

The  Darlington  line  was  finished  and  opened,  and  its  success  was 
such  as  to  encourage  the  Liverpool  merchants  shortly  after  to  project 
their  undertaking  of  a  railway  between  that  town  and  Manchester. 
The  difficulties  encountered  in  obtaining  the  act,  and  in  constructing 
the  r  dlway  across  Chat  Moss,  are  among  the  most  interesting  chap- 
ter-; ill  George  Stephenson's  life,  and  need  not  be  adverted  to  here. 
Then  began  the  battle  of  tha  locomotive,  and  the  keen  discussions 
betv/een  the  advocates  of  fixed  and  traveling  engines,  George  Ste- 
phenson standing  almost  alone  in  his  advocacy  of  the  latter.  At 
this  juncture  he  wrote  to  his  son,  urging  him  to  return  home,  as  the 


46  BBIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

fate  of  the  locomotive  bung  upon  the  issue.  Accordingly  we  find 
Robert  Stephenson  again  returned  to  England,  and  in  charge  of  the 
locomotive  manufactory  at  Newcastle,  by  the  end  of  the  year  1827. 
From  this  time  forward  Robert  was  as  his  father's  right  hand,  forti- 
fying his  arguments,  illustrating  his  views,  embodying  his  ideas  in 
definite  shapes,  writing  his  reports  to  the  directors,  exposing  the 
fallacies  contained  in  the  arguments  put  forward  by  the  advocates 
of  fixed  engines,  and  iu  all  ways  energetically  fighting  by  the  side 
of  his  father  the  battle  of  the  locomotive.  At  length  their  joint  per- 
severance produced  its  effect;  a  prize  was  offered  for  the  best  loco- 
motive, and  George  and  Robert  Stephenson's  engine,  the  "Rocket," 
won  the  prize  at  Rainhill.  Mr.  Booth  furnished  the  idea  of  the 
multitubular  boiler;  George  Stephenson  furnished  the  general  plan 
of  the  engine;  but  the  working  out  of  the  whole  details,  on  which  so 
much  depended,  was  carried  out  by  Robert  Stephenson  himself  in 
the  manufactory  at  Newcastle.  Successful,  however,  though  the 
performances  of  that  engine  were,  it  was  but  the  beginning  of  Robert 
Stephenson's  labors.  For  many  years  after,  he  continued  to  devote 
himself  to  perfecting  the  locomotive  in  all  its  details;  and  it  was 
astonishing  to  observe  the  rapidity  of  the  improvements  effected, 
every  engine  turned  out  of  the  Stephenson  workshops  exhibiting  an 
advance  upon  its  predecessor  in  point  of  speed,  power,  and  working 
efficiency. 

The  success  of  railways  being  now  proved,  railway  projects  multi- 
plied in  all  directions,  and  Mr.  Stephenson  then  decided  to  enter 
upon  the  business  of  a  civil  engineer;  the  first  railway  laid  out  by 
him  being  the  Leicester  and  Swanington  line;  after  which,  in  con- 
junction with  his  father,  he  was  appointed  engineer  of  the  London 
and  Birmingham  Railway.  It  is  related  as  an  illustration  of  his  con- 
scientious perseverance  in  laying  out  this  line,  that,  in  the  course  of 
his  examination  of  the  country  between  London  and  Birmingham, 
he  walked  over  the  whole  intervening  districts  upwards  of  twenty 
times.  The  difficulties  encountered  in  carrying  out  this  undertaking 
in  those  early  days  of  railway-making  were  of  the  most  formidable 
kind,  the  most  important  being  the  construction  of  the  Kilsby  Tun- 
nel; but  by  perseverance  and  skill  added  to  his  previous  knowledge 
of  mining  operations,  which  proved  of  great  service  to  him,  they 
were  all  surmounted;  and  the  success  of  the  London  and  Birming- 
ham Railway  speedily  introduced  our  young  engineer  to  a  vast  and 
prosperous  business,  in  which  he  continued  to  hold  the  very  first 
place  to  the  close  of  his  life.  It  was  stated  in  his  presence  at  the 
celebration  of  the  opening  of  the  High  Level  Bridge  at  Newcastle  a 
few  years  ago,  that  n(yt  less  than  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
of  railway  had  then  been  constructed  after  his  designs  and  under  his 
superintendence,  at  an  outlay  of  seventy  millions  sterling. 

His  Parliamentary  business  was  necessarily  extensive.  In  the 
seesion  of  18^6  he  appeared  as  the  engineer  for  no  fewer  than  thirty- 


I 


BOBERT  STEPHENSON.  41 


three  schemes;  and  he  might  have  been  engineer  for  as  many  more, 
if  he  would  have  allowed  his  name  to  appear  in  connection  with 
them.  On  all  questions  of  railway  working  and  railway  construc- 
tion, his  evidence  was  eagerly  sought  and  highly  valued.  Into  the 
controversy  respecting  the  comparative  merits  of  the  narrow  and 
broad  gauges,  and  the  locomotive  as  compared  with  the  atmospheric 
system,  he  threw  himself  with  more  than  ordinary  scientific  keen- 
ness. He  was  the  head  and  front  of  the  opposition  to  his  friend 
Brunei's  innovations,  and  the  result  proved  that  his  views  were  cor- 
rect. The  most  vehement  Parliamentary  struggle  of  this  kind 
occurred  in  the  session  of  1845,  when  the  rival  schemes  of  Brunei 
and  Stephenson  were  before  Parliament, — the  one  promoting  the 
Northumberland  Atmosi)heric,  and  the  other  the  Newcastle  and 
Berwick  (locomotive)  line.  The  former  was  recommended  to  the 
Commons  Committee  by  Mr.  Sergeant  Wrangham,  as  calculated  to 
be  "a  respectable  line,  and  not  one  that  was  to  be  converted  into  a 
road  for  the  accommodation  of  the  coal-owners  of  the  district;"  and 
Mr.  Brunei  summed  up  his  evidence  in  these  words:  *'In  short, 
rapidity,  comfort,  safety,  and  economy  are  its  recommendations." 
Mr.  Stephenson  was  examined  at  great  length,  and  his  evidence 
must  have  had  its  due  weight  with  the  Committee,  who  passed  the 
preamble  of  his  bill;  and  the  shareholders  were  thus  saved  much 
useless  expenditure,  for  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  years  the  atmos- 
pheric system  was  everywhere  abandoned. 

The  High  Level  Bridge  at  Newcastle  formed  part  of  the  east  coast 
system  of  railways,  of  which  Mr.  Stephenson  was  then  the  engineer, 
extending  from  London  to  Berwick.  This  noble  work  occupied 
three  years  in  construction,  and  it  was  opened  by  her  Majesty  on 
the  19th  of  August,  1849.  It  is  a  much  finer  architectural  structure 
than  any  of  the  great  iron  bridges  subsequently  erected  by  Mr.  Ste- 
phenson; combining,  also,  in  a  remarkable  degree,  the  qualities  of 
strength,  rigidity,  and  durability.  The  bridge  and  viaduct  approach- 
ing it  are  of  great  length,  being,  together,  about  four  thousand  feet. 
The  bridge  spans  the  Tyne  between  Newcastle  and  Gateshead,  and 
passes  completely  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  which  fill  the  valley 
on  either  side  the  river.  The  prospect  from  the  bridge  is  most 
striking;  the  Tyne,  full  of  shipping,  lies  a  hundred  and  thirty  feet 
below,  the  funnels  and  masts  of  steamers  being  visible,  when  the 
smoke  allows,  far  down  the  river.  Seen  from  beneath,  the  bridge  is 
very  majestic,  the  impress  of  power  being  grandly  stamped  upon  it. 
One  of  the  most  important  features  of  the  bridge — characteristic  of 
all  Mr.  Stephenson's  structures,  but  especially  so  in  this  case— is  its 
utility.  It  is  a  double  bridge,  formijig  a  direct  road,  connecting  the 
busy  towns  of  Newcastle  and  Gateshead  with  each  other,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  is  an  integral  part  of  the  railway  system  along  which  the 
traffic  by  the  east  coast  between  England  and  Scotland  is  enabled  to 
pass  \^thgut  br^jsk  of  gauge;  and  it  will  probably  remaixi,  for  many 


^  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES, 

centnries  to  come,  the  finest  and  most  appropriate  monnment  in 
Newcastle  to  the  native  genius  of  the  Stephenson.s. 

Another  of  Mr.  Stephenson's  great  structures  is  his  well-known 
Britannia  Bridge  across  the  Menai  Strai  ts,  — a  masterly  work,  t  h e  result 
of  laborious  calculation,  founded  on  painstaking  experiment,  com- 
bined with  eminent  constructive  genius  and  high  moral  and  intel- 
lectual courage.  The  original  idea  embodied  by  Mr.  Stephenson  in 
this  bridge  was  the  application  of  wrong bt-iron  tubes  in  the  form  of 
an  aerial  tunnel,  for  the  purpose  of  spanniDg  this  arm  of  the  sea  at 
such  a  height  as  to  enable  vessels  of  large  burden  to  pass  under- 
neath in  full  sail.  The  arch  was  rejected,  as  incompatible  with  the 
requirements  oi;,the  Act  of  Parliameut,  and  the  engineer  was  tlirown 
tipon  his  own  resources  to  overcome  the  apparently  insurmount- 
able difficulties  of  the  passage.  After  much  re&ection  and  study,  the 
scheme  of  a  wrought-iron  hollow  beam,  of  gigantic  dimensions,  was 
adopted ;  Mr.  Stephenson  feeling  satisfied  that  the  principles  on  which 
the  idea  was  founded  was  nothing  more  than  an  extension  of  those  in 
daily  use  in  the  profession  of  the  engineer.  While  his  miDd  was 
still  occupied  with  the  subject  in  its  earlier  stages,  an  accident  oc- 
curred to  the  Prince  of  Waies  iron  steamship,  ac  Blaokwall,  which 
singularly  corroborated  Mr.  Stephenson's  views  as  to  the  strength 
of  wrought-iron  beams  of  large  dimensions.  While  launching  this 
vessel,  the  cleat  of  the  bow  gave  way,  in  consequence  of  the  bolts 
breaking,  and  let  the  vessel  down  so  that  the  bilge  came  in  contact 
with  the  wharf,  and  she  remained  suspended  between  the  water 
and  the  wharf  for  a  distance  of  about  one  hundred  and  ten  feet, 
without  injury  to  the  plates  of  the  ship,  thus  proving  her  great 
strength.  The  illusl ration  was  well-timed,  and  so  fully  confirmed 
the  calculations  which  Mr.  Stephenson  had  already  made  on  the 
strength  of  tubular  structures,  that  it  greatly  relieved  his  anxiety, 
and  converted  his  confidence  into  a  certainty  that  he  had  not  un- 
dertaken an  impracticable  task.  Then  commenced  a  series  of  elab- 
orate experiments,  in  which  the  engineer  was  ably  assisted  by  Pro- 
fessor Hodgkinson,  Mr.  Fairbairn,  and  Mr.  E.  Clarke,  to  determine 
the  best  form,  thickness,  and  dimensions  of  the  required  tubes,  so 
that  assurance  might  be  made  doubly  sure.  Every  detail  was  care- 
fully attended  to,  and  not  a  point  was  neglected  that  could  add  to 
the  efficiency  and  security  of  the  structure.  As  Mr.  Stephenson 
himself  said,  at  the  opening  of  the  bridge  for  traffic:  *'  The  true  and 
accurate  calculation  of  all  the  conditions  and  elements  essential  to 
the  safety  of  the  bridge  had  been  a  source  not  only  of  mental,  but 
of  bodily  toil;  including,  as  it  did  a  combination  of  abstract  thought 
and  well-considered  experiment  adequate  to  the  magnitude  of  the 
project."  Mr.  Stephenson's  anxiety  was  very  great  during  the  ar- 
duous process  of  raising  the  tubes,  and  it  is  said  that  for  three  weeks 
he  was  almost  sleepless.  Sir  F.  Head,  however,  relates,  that  on  the 
xnoraing  following  the  raising  of  the  final  tube,  when  about  to  leave 


ROBERT  STEPHENSON.  49 

the  scene  of  so  many  days  harassing  operations,  he  observed,  flit- 
ting on  a  platform  which  had  been  erected  to  enable  some  of  tbo 
more  favored  spectators  to  command  a  good  view  of  the  preceding 
day's  operations,  a  gentleman  reclining  entirely  by  himBelf.  smok- 
ing a  cigar,  and  as  if  almost  indolently  gazing  at  the  aerial  gallery 
before  him.  It  was  the  father  looking  at  his  new-born  child!  He 
h'ld  strolled  down  from  the  neigh  borin.^'  village,  after  his  firnt  sound 
and  refreshing  sleep  for  weeks;  to  behohl  in  sunshine  and  solitude 
that  which,  during  a  weary  period  of  gestation,  had  been  either 
mysteriously  moving  in  his  brain,  or,  like  a  vision,  — sometimes  of 
good  omen,  and  sometimes  of  bad, — had,  by  night  as  well  as  by  day, 
been  flitting  across  his  mind.  •♦ 

The  Victoria  Bridge,  across  the  St.  Lawrence,  near  Montreal,  is 
constructed  on  the  same  principle  as  the  Britannia  Bridge,  but  on  a 
much  larger  scale;  the  Victoria  Bridge,  with  its  approaches,  being 
only  sixty  yards  short  of  two  miles  in  length.  In  its  gigantic  strength 
and  majestic  proportions,  there  is  no  structure  to  compare  with  it; 
in  ancient  or  modern  times.  It  consists  of  not  less  than  twenty- 
five  immense  tubular  bridges  joined  into  one;  the  great  central  span 
being  three  hundred  and  thirty  feet,  the  others  two  hundred  and 
forty-two  feet  in  length.  The  weight  of  wrought-iron  in  the  bridge 
is  about  ten  thousand  tons;  and  the  piers  are  of  massive  stone  con- 
taining some  eight  thouSlmd  tons  each  of  solid  masonry.  Of  this 
last  and  greatest  of  his  works,  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  the  engineer 
did  not  live  to  see  the  completion. 

For  many  years  his  time  was  completely  occupied  with  the  pro- 
motion of  raihvay  bills,  the  surveying  of  new  lines  for  manj^  com- 
panies, and  giving  evidence  for  those  companies  in  Parliament,  as 
well  as  superintending  the  construction  of  railway  works  in  progress. 
During  this  busy  period  of  his  life  his  income  was  very  large,  and 
his  accumulation  of  property  was  rapid, — far  beyond  any  previous 
example  of  engineering  gain.  And  when  his  father  died,  in  1848, 
bequeathing  to  him  his  valuable  collieries,  his  share  in  the  engine 
manufactory  at  Newcastle,  and  his  accumulated  savings,  Robert 
Stephenson  occupied  the  position  of  an  engineer  millioniare, — the 
first  of  the  race.  He  continued,  however,  to  live  in  a  quiet  style,  and 
although  he  bought  pictures,  and  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  yacht, 
he  did  not  live  up  to  his  income,  which  went  on  accumulating.  Ho 
had  no  family  to  inherit  his  fortune,  and  he  could,  therefore,  afford 
to  be  generous — which  he  was,  to  his  honor — to  the  educational  in- 
stitutions of  his  native  town.  The  Newcastle  and  Literarj^  Institute 
had  liberally  assisted  his  father  and  himself  with  books  and  appar- 
atus in  the  days  of  their  obscurity;  and  he  accordingly  presented 
the  Institute,  during  his  lifetime,  with  a  sum  of  above  £3,000,  to- 
wards paying  off  the  debt  which  lay  heavily  upon  the  institution, 
conditional  on  its  local  supporters  finding  the  remaining  half  of  the 
d^h^  which  they  did.    It  is  well  to  s^e  men  of  wealth  thus  mindful 


BO  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

of  the  edncatlonal  claims  of  the  localities  to  which  they  belong,  and 

of  the  institutes  which  helped  them  in  their  youth. 

Mr.  Stephenson  was  greatly  esteemed  in  his  profession,  and  when 
any  difficulty  arose,  he  was  prompt  to  render  his  best  advice  and 
assistance.  When  Mr.  Brunei  v/as  occupied  with  his  first  fruitless 
efforts  to  launch  the  Great  Eastern,  at  the  close  of  one  most  dis- 
heartening day's  work,  he  wrote  Mr.  Stephenson,  urg.cg  him  to 
come  down  to  Blackwall  on  the  following  morning,  and  confer  with 
him  as  to  further  measures.  Next  morning  Mr.  Stephenson  was  in 
the  yard  at  Blackwall  shortly  after  six  o'clock,  and  he  remained 
there  until  dusk.  While  superintending  the  operations  about  mid- 
day, he  came  to  £he  end  of  a  balk  of  timber  which  canted  up,  aud 
he  fell  up  to  his  middle  in  the  Thames  mad.  He  was  merely  in  his 
ordinary  dress,  without  any  great  coat  (though  the  weather  was  bit- 
ter cold)  and  with  only  thin  boots  upon  his  feet.  He  was  urged  to 
leave  the  yard  and  change  his  dress,  but,  with  his  usual  disregard 
of  health,  his  reply  vras,  *•  O,  never  mind  me,  I'm  quite  used  to  this 
sort  of  thing,"  and  he  went  paddling  about  in  the  mud,  smoking 
his  cigar  until  almost  quite  dark,  when  the  work  of  the  day  was  com- 
pleted. The  consequence  of  this  exposure  was  an  inflammation  of 
the  lungs,  which  kept  him  to  his  bed  for  a  fortnight. 

No  man  could  be  more  beloved  than  Mi^  Stephenson  was  by  a 
wide  circle  of  friends.  His  pupils  and  juniors  in  the  profession 
regarded  him  with  a  sort  of  worship;  aud  he  even  ran  some  risk  of 
being  spoiled  by  the  adulation  witji  which  they  surrounded  him. 
But  he  preserved  his  simplicity,  his  modestj-,  and  his  manliness, 
through  all.  He  was  a  kind  and  pleasant  companion,  very  unajBfec- 
ted,  cordial,  and  communicative.  Possessing  ample  means,  he 
was  enabled  to  do  many  benevolent  acts,  particularly  to  those  wlio 
had  worked  with  him  in  the  early  part  of  his  career;  and  he  was 
always  read}''  to  help  on  the  deserving  and  the  industrious. 

He  was  greatly  honored  in  his  life,  though  he  died  untitled.  Like 
his  father,  he  was  offered  knighthood,  and  declined  it;  but  he  ac- 
cepted the  honors  of  foreign  potentates  for  whom  he  had  performed 
important  services.  By  the  King  of  the  Belgians  he  was  made 
Knight  of  the  Order  of  Leopold;  the  King  of  Sweden  presented  him 
with  the  Grand  Cross  of  Olaf;  and  the  Emperor  of  the  French  deco- 
rated him  with  the  Order  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  In  1857  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford  conferred  on  him  the  honor  of  D.  C.  L. ;  and  for 
many  years  he  represented  Whitby  in  Parliament.  The  greatest 
honor  of  all,  however,  was  reserved  for  his  death,  when  he  was  laid 
to  rest  amidst  the  great  departed  of  England  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Among  those  vv'ho  stood  beside  his  grave  were  many  of  the  friends 
of  his  boyhood  and  his  manhood.  William  Kell,  Philip  Staunton, 
and  Joseph  Glynn,  his  schoolfellows;  Nicholas  Wood,  his  first  mas- 
ter in  tne  business  of  life;  Joseph  Sandars,  the  projector  of  the  Liver- 
pool and  Manchester  Railway;  Henry  Booth,  his  coadjutor  in  design- 


EOBEET  STEPHENSON.  51 

ilg  the  * 'Rocket,"  which  won  the  prize  at  Rainhill;  Joseph  Locke  and 
bhn  Dixon,  his  early  professional  companions  ;  Mr.  Glyn,  Mr.  Ellis, 
tid  Mr.  Joseph  Pease,  fast  friends  of  his  father,  as  well  as  himsell;  down 
►  Henry  Weatherburn,  driver  of  the  "Harvey  Combe,  "beside  whom 
Ihe  engineer  stood  on  the  foot-plate  of  the  locomotive  at  the  opening 
of  the  London  and  Birmingham  Railway.  Besides  these  were 
many  of  the  greatest  living  men  cf  thought  and  action,  assembled 
at  that  solemn  ceremony  to  pa}'-  their  last  mark  of  respect  to  this 
illustrious  son  of  one  of  England's  greatest  workingmen.  Requiescatl 


DR.  ARNOLD. 


IT  does  one*8  heart  good  to  contemplate  the  life  of  Btich  a  man  as 
Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby.  He  possessed  that  quality  of  earnestness 
which  gives  force  to  every  purpose  in  life.  He  "was  full  of 
strong  sympathy  for  all  that  was  true  and  good  in  our  modern  social 
movements,  and  of  as  strong  antipathy  for  all  that  he  conceived  to 
be  false  and  unjust.  He  did  battle  in  the  cause  that  he  conscien- 
tiously felt  to  be  right,  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul;  and. waged  an 
uncompromising  war  against  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  shams  and 
falsities.  He  was  of  the  stern  stuff  of  which  martyrs  are  made;  for 
when  he  Raw  his  way  clear,  and  his  conscience  approved,  he  never 
hesitated  at  once  to  act  boldly  and  energetically.  We  may  not  agree 
with  him  in  all  the  views  that  he  held  and  advocated;  but  we  never 
fail  to  admire  the  undeviating  and  high-minded  consistency  of  his 
life,  and  the  purity  of  the  motives  on  which  he  acted. 

The  history  of  Dr.  Arnold  contains  comparatively  few  incidents. 
He  was  a  scholar  and  a  thinker,  acting  upon  the  world  through  hia 
school  and  his  study,  rather  than  taking  an  active  part  in  its  prac- 
tical movements  and  struggles.  He  influenced  it  from  without,  and 
spoke  to  the  men  in  action,  as  if  from  a  higher  sphere.  Thomas 
Arnold  was  born  at  West  Cowes,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  in  1795.  His 
father,  who  was  the  collector  of  customs  at  that  place,  died  suddenly 
in  1801,  and  left  a  large  family  to  be  provided  for,  Thomas  (^the 
youngest)  being  then  only  six  years  old.  His  aunt  undertook  the 
care  of  his  education,  and  sent  him  to  Warminster  School  in  1803, 
where  he  remained  four  years,  and  then  removed  to  Winchester, 
leaving  that  seminary  in  1811.  As  a  boy,  he  was  shy  and  retirlno;, 
but  he  then  formed  numerous  warm  friendships,  which  continued 
through  life.  He  was  iond  of  ballad  poetry,  and  while  at  Winchester 
wrote  a  long  poem  on  the  subject  of  Simon  de  Monfort,  which 
obtained  for  him  the  appellation  of  "Poet  Arnold."  But  in  his 
school  career  there  was,  on  the  whole,  nothing  remarkable. 


I 


DR.  ARNOLD.  63 


He  entered  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford,  in  1811;  was  elected  a 
Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  in  1815;  and  subsequently  obtained  the 
Chancellor's  prize  for  "the  University  essays  in  Latin  and  English. 
Ho  often  looked  back  with  delight  to  his  residence  at  Oxford,  and 
trod  over  again  in  lancy  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  neighborhood, 
— Bagely  Wood,  and  Shotover,  with  Horspath  nestling  under  it; 
Plsfield,  with  its  green  slope,  and  all  the  variety  of  Cumnor  Hill. 
He  had  an  intense  love  of  nature  in  all  its  aspects,  and  quite  reveled 
amongst  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Westmoreland,  where  he  had  his 
rural  home  during  the  later  years  of  his  life.  While  at  College  his 
inquiries  became  directed  upon  religious  subjects,  and  he  was  early 
beset  by  doubts  and  scruples,  through  which  most  strong  minds 
have  vigorously  to  struggle.  But  Arnold  succeeded  in  at  length 
reaching  what  he  felt  to  be  firm  ground,  his  nature  strengthened  by 
the  struggles  which  he  had  undergone. 

In  December,  1818,  he  was  ordained  deacon  at  Oxford;  in  1819  he 
settled  at  Laleham  with  his  mother,  aunt,  and  sister,  taking  in  pupils 
to  prepare  them  for  the  Universities;  and  in  1820  he  married  Mary 
Penrose,  the  youngest  daughter  of  the  Rector  of  Fledborough,  Lin- 
colnshire. He  remained  at  Laleham  for  nine  years,  diligently 
improving  his  mind,  engaged  in  the  study  of  Greek  and  Roman 
history,  learning  German  in  order  to  read  Niebuhr,  searching  out 
the  deep  meaning  of  the  Scriptures,  and  devoting  himself  to  the 
improvement  and  culture  of  the  minds  of  his  pupils.  He  loved 
teaching,  and  seemed  to  live  for  it,  entering  into  the  pursuits  of  his 
scholars,  making  them  feel  in  love  with  knowledge  and  virtue,  giving 
them  new  views  of  life  and  action,  and  discovering  to  them  the 
means  of  being  useful  and  truly  happy.  He  loved  his  pupils,  and 
they  loved  him  warmly  in  turn.  He  bathed  with  them,  leaped 
with  them,  sailed  and  rowed  with  them.,  and  entered  into  all  their 
amusements,  as  well  as  intellectual  occupations. 

His  success  at  Laleham,  and  the  high  opinion  which  began  to  bo 
entertained  of  him  by  leading  minds,  directed  attention  to  Dr. 
Arnold  as  the  proper  person  to  fill  the  office  of  Head  Master  of  Rugby 
School,  on  the  resignation  of  Dr.  Wool,  for  a  long  time  master  of  that 
academy;  and  on  presenting  himself  as  a  candidate,  he  was  at  once 
elected  to  the  office  in  December,  1827.  In  the  following  year  he 
received  priest's  orders;  shortly  after,  he  took  his  degree  of  B.  D., 
and  D.  D.,  and  entered  upon  his  duties  in  August,  1828.  He  com- 
menced his  work  with  the  ardent  zeal  of  a  reformer.  He  had  long 
deplored  the  state  of  the  public  schools  of  England,  holding  many 
of  them  to  be  seminaries  of  vice  rather  than  of  virtue,  and  he  longed 
to  try  "whether  his  notions  of  Christian  education  were  really 
impracticable,  and  whether  oiir  system  of  public  schools  had  not  in 
it  some  noble  elements  which  might  produce  fruit,  even  to  life 
eternal." 

Many  have  expressed  a  regret  that  Arnold,  with  his  fine  powers  of 


64  BEIEF  BIOGEAPHIEa 

mind,  should  have  devoted  his  main  energies  through  life  to  the 
performance  of  the  duties  of  a  schoolmaster.  But  he  himself  had 
the  proper  notions  of  this  high  calling,  and  he  felt  that  in  forming, 
influencing,  and  directing  the  minds  of  hundreds  of  young  men, 
who  were  to  occupy,  many  of  them,  prominent  places  in  society,  at 
the  same  time  that  he  was  laboring  to  reform  and  to  elevate  the 
entire  system  of  school  education,  he  was  really  engaged  in  a  noble 
and  elevating  work.  He  threw  himself  into  this  work  with  great 
zeal,  at  first  feeling  his  way,  but  gradually  acting  with  greater  bold- 
ness and  decision.  He  succeeded  in  enlisting  the  boys  themselves 
in  his  labors,  made  them  co-operators  with  himself  in  the  improve- 
ments he  sought  to  introduce,  and  the  result  was,  that,  in  the 
course  of  a  very  few  years,  Rugby  School  was  rendered  one  of  the 
most  famous  and  successful  in  England. 

It  would  occupy  too  much  space  to  detail  the  tenderness,  the  firm- 
ness, the  judgment,  the  kindness,  and  the  Christian  zeal  which  the 
master  displayed  in  carrying  out  his  great  purpose,  and  to  exhibit 
by  what  means  he  fired  his  pupils  with  the  love  of  truth,  virtue,  and 
integrity, — teaching  them  to  do  for  themselves  rather  than  to  depend 
upon  others  for  success,— treating  them  as  gentlemen,  and  thus 
making  them  such,— trusting  them,  confiding  in  them,  stimulating 
them,  and  encouraging  them .  But,  as  was  to  have  been  expected, 
there  were  many  unruly  spirits  to  be  dealt  with  among  an  indis- 
criminate mass  of  three  hundred  boys;  and  mischievous  tendencies 
and  bad  feeling  could  not  be  altogether  repressed  among  them.  On 
one  of  these  occasions  he  exclaimed;  *'Is  this  a  Christian  school?  I 
cannot  remain  here  if  all  is  to  be  carried  on  by  constraint  and  force; 
if  I  am  to  be  here  as  a  jailer,  I  would  rather  resign  my  office  at  once." 
And  on  another  occasion,  when  he  had  found  it  necessary  to  send 
away  some  unruly  boys,  he  said:  *'It  is  not  necessary  that  this 
should  be  a  school  of  three  hundred,  or  of  one  hundred,  or  of  fifty 
boys;  but  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be  a  school  of  Christian 
gentlemen."  And  such  stirring  appeals  to  the  generous  nature  of 
his  boys  rarely  faiUd  in  their  effect. 

What  Br.  Arnold  mainly  aimed  at,  was  to  promote  the  self-devel- 
opment of  the  young  minds  committed  to  his  charge,  by  encourag- 
ing them  to  cultivate  their  own  intellects.  **  I  am  sure,"  he  used  to 
say:  **  the  temptations  of  intellect  are  not  comparable  to  the  tempt- 
ations of  dullness;*'  and  he  often  dwelt  on  **  the  fruit  which  he  above 
all  things  longed  for, — moral  thoughtfulness, — the  engrossing  love 
of  truth  going  along  with  the  devoted  love  of  goodness;"  and  again 
he  said:  "I  am  quite  sure  that  it  is  a  most  solemn  duty  to  cultivate 
our  understandings  to  the  uttermost,  for  I  have  seen  the  evil  moral 
consequences  of  fanaticism  to  a  greater  degree  than  I  ever  expected 
to  see  them  realized;  and  I  am  satisfied  that  a  neglected  intellect  is 
far  oftener  the  cause  of  mischief  to  a  man  than  a  perverted  or  over- 
valued one,"    He  longed  to  train  men  so  that  they  should  form  their 


DB.  -iRNOLD.  65 

own  opinions  honestly,  and  entertain  them  decidedly.  He  could 
not  bear  that  nondescript  in  society, — the  neviral  character.  *'  Neu- 
trality, however,"  he  observed,  **  seems  to  me  a  natural  state  for  men 
of  fair  honesty,  moderate  wit,  and  much  indolence;  they  cannot  get 
strong  impressions  of  what  is  true  and  right,  and  the  weak  impres- 
sion, which  is  all  that  they  can  take,  cannot  overcome  indolence  and 
fear;  I  crave  a  strong  mind  for  my  children,  for  this  reason, — that 
they  then  have  a  chance,  at  least,  of  appreciating  truth  keenly,  and 
when  a  man  does  that,  honesty  becomes  comparatively  easy."  *•  I 
would  far  rather,"  he  said,  send  a  boy  to  Van  Dieman's  Land,  where 
he  must  work  for  his  bread,  than  send  him  to  Oxford  to  live  in  lux- 
ury, without  any  desire  in  his  mind  to  avail  himself  of  his  advan- 
tages. Childishness  in  boys,  even  of  good  abilities,  seems  to  me  to 
be  a  growing  fault,  and  I  do  not  know  to  what  to  ascribe  it,  except 
to  the  greater  number  of  exciting  books  of  amusement,  like  *  Pick- 
wick' and  *  Nickleby,*  *Bentley's  Miscellany,'  etc.,  etc.  These  com- 
pletely satisfy  all  the  intellectual  appetites  of  a  boy,  which  is  rarely 
.very  voracious,  and  leave  him  totally  palled,  not  only  for  his 
regular  work,  which  I  could  well  excuse  in  comparison,  but  for  good 
literature  of  all  sorts,  even  for  history  and  poetry." 

At  the  same  time,  for  mere  cleverness,  whether  in  men  or  boys, 
without  moral  goodness,  and  mental  strength,  he  had  very  little 
esteem.  •*  Mere  intellectual  acuteness,"  he  used  to  say,  in  speaking 
of  lawyers,  for  example,  **  divested  as  it  is,  in  too  many  cases,  of  ail 
that  is  comprehensive  and  great  and  good,  is  to  me  more  revolting 
than  the  most  helpless  imbecility,  seeming  to  be  almost  like  the 
spirit  of  Mephistophiles."  Again,  '*  If  there  be  one  thing  on  earth 
which  is  truly  admirable,  it  is  to  see  God's  wisdom  blessing  an 
inferiority  of  natural  powers,  where  they  have  been  honestly,  truly, 
and  zealously  cultivated."  In  speaking  of  a  pupil  of  this  character, 
he  said,  **I  would  stand  to  that  man  hat  in  hand  "  Once,  at  Lale- 
ham,  when  teaching  a  rather  dull  boy,  he  spoke  rather  sharply  to 
him,  when  the  pupil  looked  up  in  his  face  and  said,  "Why  do  you 
speak  angrily,  sir?  indeed  I  am  doing  the  best  I  can."  Years  after- 
wards he  used  to  tell  the  story  to  his  children,  and  said,  "I  never 
felt  so  much  in  my  life, — that  look  and  that  F»peech  I  have  never  for- 
gotten.'* In  such  a  spirit  did  Dr.  Arnold  enter  and  proceed  upon 
his  work  of  educating  young  minds,  and  the  success  that  attended 
his  efforts  was  immense.  He  excited  quite  an  enthusiastic  admira- 
tion among  his  pupils,  and  many  there  are  who  confess  that  they 
owe  to  him  the  main  bent  of  their  lives  and  actions,  and  all  the  good 
which  the}^  have  accomplished.  This  feeling  has  by  no  means  been 
exaggerated  by  Mr.  Hughes  in  his  celebrated  "  Tom  Brown's  School 
Days." 

While  thus  diligently  occupied  among  his  pupils,  and  superin- 
tending, with  an  anxious  eye,  the  whole  business  of  his  great  school, 
Dr.  Arnold  took  the  most  eager  interest  in  the  ongoings  of  the  busy 


56  BKIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

world  withont.  He  followed  the  pnblic  movements  of  the  day  with 
enthusiasm;  he  was  a  man  who  could  not  possibly  be  neutral,  and 
he  at  once  took  his  side  with  the  cause  of  progress.  In  his  youth, 
Arnold  had  been  a  coDservative;  but  the  readincj  of  history,  of  the 
Bible,  and  Aristotle,  with  a  free  mind,  soon  led  bim  entirely  the 
other  way.  His  feelings  were  most  intense,  as  to  the  neglect  of  the 
poor  by  the  rich,  and  the  injustice  and  want  of  sympathy  exercised 
toward  the  multitudinous  classes.  "It haunts  me,"  he  said,  **  almost 
night  and  day.  It  fills  me  with  astonishment  to  see  antislavery  and 
missionary  societies  so  busy  with  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  yet  ail 
the  worst  evils  of  slavery  and  heathenism  existing  among  ourselves." 

Again,  in  1840,  he  says:  *•  The  state  of  the  timesissogrevious,  that 
it  really  pierces  through  all  private  happiness,  and  haunis  me  daily 
like  a  personal  calamity,''  Again  and  again  does  he  give  expression 
to  similar  desponding  views  in  his  letters  to  his  intimate  friends. 
**  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  •*  that  people  are  not  enough  aware  of  the 
monstrous  state  of  society,  absolutely  without  a  parallel  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world;  with  a  population  poor,  miserable,  and  degraded, 
both  in  body  and  mind  as  much  as  if  they  were  slaves,  and  yet  called 
freemen,  and  having  a  power  as  such  of  concerting  and  combining 
plans  of  risings?,  which  makes  them  ten  times  more  dangerous  than 
slaves.  And  the  hopes  entertained  by  many,  of  the  effects  to  be 
wrought  by  new  churches  and  schools,  while  the  social  evils  of  their 
condition  are  left  uncorrected,  appear  to  ma  to  be  utterly  wild." 
Tlio  Corn  Laws  and  the  Debt,  the  increasing  mortgages  on  land  and 
industry,  oppressed  his  mind  like  a  nightmare.  He  could  not  rid 
himself  of  the  thought  of  these  things.  He  feared  that  •'too  late" 
were  the  words  which  must  be  affixed  to  every  plan  of  reforming 
society  in  England.  **  The  English  nationj'  he  observed,  *'  are  like 
a  man  in  a  lethargy;  they  are  never  roused  from  their  conservatism 
till  mustard  poultices  are  put  to  their  feet."  The  conduct  of  the 
higher  classes,  at  the  same  time  roused  his  extreme  ire.  *'  There  is," 
said  he,  "no  earthly  thing  more  mean  and  despicable  in  my  mind 
than  an  English  gentleman  destitute  of  all  sense  of  his  responsibil- 
itif-s  and  opportunities,  and  only  reveling  in  the  luxuries  of  our 
hiG:h  civilization,  and  thinking  himself  a  great  person*" 

He  endeavored  to  give  his  views  on  these  subjects  a  practical  direc- 
tion, and  labored  to  organize  a  society  "for  drawing  public  attention 
to -the  state  of  the  laboring  classes  throughout  the  kingdom."  But 
the  plan  never  come  to  maturity.  He  tried  to  establish  a  newspaper, 
but  it  failed  after  a  few  numbers.  He  wrote  letters  in  the  Sheffield 
Courant  and  the  Herts  Reformer,  and  thus  endeavored  to  rouse  the 
public  attention.  "  I  have  a  testimony  to  deliver, "he  said;  ''  Imust 
write  or  die.*'  His  scholastic  studies  w^ere  all  prosecuted  with  the 
same  views.  His  Greek  and  lloman  History  was  "not  an  idle  inquiry 
about  remote  ages  and  forgotten  institutions,  but  a  living  picture  of 
things  present,  fitted  not  no  mach  for  the  Quriosity  gf  the  scholar, 


I 


DK.  ARNOLD.  67 


as  for  the  instruction  of  the  statesman  and  the  scholar.*'  **  My  abhor- 
ance  of  conservatism,"  he  observed  at  another  time,  **  is  not  because 
it  checks  liberty, — in  an  established  democracy  it  would  favor  lib- 
erty; but  because  it  checks  the  growth  of  mankind  in  wisdom,  good- 
ness, and  happiness,  by  striving  to  maintain  institutions  which  are 
of  necessity  temporary,  and  thus  never  hindering  change,  but  often 
depriving  the  change  of  half  its  value."  Yet  Dr.  Arnold,  decided 
though  his  views  were,  might  be  said  to  belong  to  no  "  party,"  either 
in  the  State  or  in  the  Church.  His  independence  v/as  too  great,— 
his  opinions  were  so  entirely  self-formed  and  elaborated,  and  held 
with  such  tenacity,  that  he  was  not  a  man  who  could  jog  quietly 
along  in  the  train  of  any  "party,"  He  was  strongly  in  favor  of  Cath- 
olic emancipation,  and  wrote  an  eloquent  pamphlet  in  its  favor;  but 
strange  to  say,  for  reasons  which  he  stated  equally  strongly,  he  was 
opposed  to  the  emancipation  of  the  Jews. 

On  Church  questions,  his  views  were  equally  bold  and  decided. 
He  stood  quite  aloof  from  High  Church  and  Low  Church  alike.  He 
was  strongly  impressed  with  a  sense  of  what  he  termed  the  *'  corrup- 
tion of  the  Church,"  which,  he  maintained,  had  been  "virtually  de- 
stroyed;" for  by  the  Church  was  now  understood  only  *' the  Clergy," 
the  Laity  being  excluded  from  ail  share  in  its  administration.  He 
inveighed,  in  an  article  of  his  in  the  Edinburgh  Eeview,  "On* the 
Fanaticism  which  has  been  the  Peculiar  Disgrace  of  the  Church  of 
England," — "a  dress,  a  ritual,  a  name,  a  ceremony,  a  technical 
phraseology, — the  superstition  of  a  priesthood  without  its  power, — 
the  gown  of  Episcopal  government,  without  its  substance, — a  s^^s- 
tera  imperfect  and  paralyzed,  not  independent,  not  sovereign, — 
afraid  to  cast  oif  the  subjection  against  which  it  was  perpetually 
murmuring, — objects  so  pitiful,  that,  if  gained  ever  so  completely, 
they  would  make  no  man  the  wiser,  or  the  better  ;  they  would 
lead  to  no  good,  intellectual,  moral,  or  spiritual."  For  this  article 
he  was  taken  to  task  by  Earl  Howe,  one  of  the  trustees  of  Rugby 
School,  and  called  upon  to  confess  whether  he  were  the  author.  He 
replied  that  the  authorship  of  the  article  was  well  known,— that  he 
had  spoken  undisguisedly  of  it  to  his  friends,  but  he  refused  to  give 
a  direct  answer  to  his  Lordship's  interrogator}',  which  would  be  "to 
acknowledge  a  right  which  I  owe  it,"  he  said,  "not  only  to  myself, 
but  to  the  master  of  every  endowed  school  in  England,  absolutely  to 
deny  "  The  result  was  a  meeting  of  the  trustees,  but  Dr.  Arnold 
was  retained  in  his  office  without  any  further  communication  being 
made  to  him. 

Dr.  Arnold  had  an  intense  sense  of  the  true  religious  life,  and  this 
it  was  which  shocked  him  at  its  shams,  and  at  the  virtual  Atheism 
in  which  men  lived.  " I  cannot,"  he  said,  "  understand  what  is  the 
good  of  a  national  church,  if  it  be  not  to  Christianize  the  nation, 
and  introduce  the  principles  of  Christianity  into  men's  social  and 
« ivil  relations,  and  expose  the  wickedness  of  that  spirit  which  main- 


eS  BRIEF  BI0GBAPHIE3, 

tains  the  Game  Laws,  and,  in  agriculture  and  trade,  seems  to  think 
that  there  is  no  such  sin  as  covetousness;  and,  that  if  a  man  is  not 
dishonest,  he  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  all  the  profit  of  his 
capital  that  he  can."  He  deplored  that  religion  had  become,  among 
UG,  an  affair  of  clergy,  not  of  people;  of  preaching  and  ceremonies, 
not  of  living;  of  Sundays  and  synagogues,  instead  of  one  of  all  days 
and  all  places,  houses,  streets,  town,  and  country."  *'Alas!"  he 
exclaimed,  ''when  will  the  church  ever  exist  more  than  in  name, 
so  that  this  profession  might  have  that  zeal  infused  into  it  which  is 
communicated  by  an  esprit  de  corps;  and,  if  the  *Body'  were  the 
real  church,  instead  of  our  abominable  sects,  with  their  half-priest- 
craft, half-profaneness,  its  *  Spirit'  would  be  one  that  we  might 
receive  into  till  our  hearts  and  minds." 

Into  the  questions  raised  by  the  Oxford  Controversy^  also,  be 
entered  with  great  warmth.  He  saw  in  it  the  essence  of  "priest- 
craft," which  he  hated,  characterizing  Newmanism  as  "the  great 
Anti-Christian  heresy;"  but  into  his  views  on  tliis  subject  we  need 
not  enter.  Speaking  thus  strongly,  it  will  be  obvious  that  he  could 
not  fail  to  rouse  a  strong  feeling  of  hostility  against  himself.  At 
London,  where  he  wished  religious,  not  sectarian,  examination  to  be 
introduced  into  the  University,  he  was  regarded  as  a  bigot;  while  at 
Oxford  he  was  regarded  as  an  extreme  latitudinarian.  **If  I  had 
two  necks,"  said  he,  "I  think  I  had  a  very  good  chance  of  being 
hanp:ed  by  both  sides."  Nor  would  he  aid  the  Sabbatarians  in 
stopping  railway  traveling  on  Sundays,  holding  that  the  Jewish  law 
of  the  Sabbath  was  not  binding  on  Christians.  Loud  outcry  was 
raised  against  him  in  many  and  various  quarters,  but  still  he  was 
nothing  daunted,  even  though  old  friends  grew  cool  and  new  ones 
fell  away.  The  truth  which  he  felt,  he  uttered,  and  never  ceased 
till  his  last  breath  to  do  so.  In  course  of  time,  however,  as  the 
rancor  of  the  strife  subsided,  and  the  great  success  of  his  manage- 
ment and  teaching  at  Rugby  became  apparent,  and,  as  his  works  on 
Greek  and  Roman  history  made  their  appearance,  to  show  the  mag- 
nificent caliber  of  his  mind,  new  and  ])owerful  friends  came  around 
him,  and  his  fame  spread  wider  than  before.  Lord  Melbourne 
offered  him  the  vaca- 1  chair  of  History  at  Oxford,  in  1841,  which  he 
joyfully  accepted,  though  he  lived  only  to  deliver  the  introductory 
course  of  lectures  ou  his  favorite  theme. 

It  will  be  observed,  from  what  v/e  have  said,  that  the  prominent 
characteristic  of  the  man  was  intense  earnestness.  He  folt  life 
keenly,  its  responsibilities  as  well  as  its  enjoyments.  His  very 
pleasures  were  earnest;  he  was  indifferent  or  neutral  in  nothing.  He 
was  always  full  of  work,  learning  some  new  language,  studying  some 
fresh  historical  subject,  or  cheering  on  by  his  pen  the  progressive 
movements  of  the  age.  "  It  boots  not,"  he  said,  *  to  look  backward: 
foTv^artU  forward,  forward,  should  be  our,  motto."  **I  covet  rest 
neither  /or  my  friends  nor  yet  for  myself;  so  long  as  we  are  able  to 


I 


DE.  AKNOLD.  5^ 


work;"  but,  again  he  would  say,  "work  after  all  is  but  half  the 
man,  and  they  who  only  work  together,  do  not  truly  live  together." 
"Instead  of  feeling  my  mind  exhausted,"  he  would  say,  after  the 
daj^'s  business  in  the  school  was  over,  "it  seems  to  have  quite  an 
eagerness  to  set  to  work.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  dictate  to  twenty  sec- 
retaries at  once."  He  was  a  thoroughly  "go-ahead"  man,  and 
rejoiced  at  all  the  signs  of  work  and  progress  in  this  busy  age.  The 
delight  with  which  he  regarded  the  power  of  the  railway  was  quite 
characteristic  of  him.  *'I  rejoice  to  see  it,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  on 
one  of  the  arches  of  the  London  and  Birmingham  line,  and  watched 
the  train  flash  along  through  the  distant  hedgerows, — "I  rejoice  to 
see  it,  and  think  that  feudality  is  gone  forever.  It  is  so  great  a 
blessing  to  think  that  any  one  evil  is  really  extinct." 

He  was  a  great  lover  of  men.  When  he  met  with  one  earnest  and 
zealous  as  himself, — and  such  was  rare, — he  loved  him  with  his 
whole  heart.  Chevalier  Bunsen  and  Niebuhr  were  objects  of  his 
high  admiration.  Carlyle,  too,  was  a  great  favorite.  "  What  I  daily 
feel  more  and  more  to  need,.'  he  said,  "as  life  every  year  rises  more 
and  more  before  me  in  its  true  reality,  is  to  have  intercourse  with 
those  who  take  life  in  earnest.  It  is  very  painful  to  me  to  be  always 
on  the  surface  of  things,  and  I  think  that  literature,  science,  politics, 
many  topics  of  far  greater  interest  than  mere  gossip,  or  talking 
about  the  weather,  are  yet,  as  they  are  generally  talked  about,  still 
on  the  surface;  they  do  not  touch  the  real  depths  of  life."  And 
again:  "Differences  of  opinion  give  me  but  little  concern;  but  it  is 
a  real  pleasure  to  be  brought  into  communication  v/ith  any  one  who 
is  in  earnest,  and  who  really  looks  to  God's  will  as  his  standard  of 
right  and  wrong,  and  judges  of  actions  according  to  their  greater  or 
less  conformity."  Hence  Arnold  disliked  the  mere  theologians. 
"There  appears  to  me,"  he  said,  *'in  all  the  English  divines  a  want 
of  believing,  or  disbelieving  anything,  because  it  is  true  or  false." 
And  again:  "I  have  left  ofT  reading  our  divines,  because,  as  Pascal 
said  of  the  Jesuits,  if  I  had  spent  my  time  in  reading  them  fully,  I 
should  have  read  a  great  many  very  indifterent  books.  But  if  I 
could  find  a  great  man  amongst  them,  I  would  read  him  thankfully 
and  earnestly.  As  it  is,  I  hold  John  Bunyan  to  have  been  a  man  of 
incomparably  greater  genius  than  any  of  them,  and  to  have  given  a 
far  truer  and  more  edifying  picture  of  Christianity.  His  'Pilgrim's 
Progress*  seems  to  be  a  complete  reflection  of  Scripture,  with  none 
of  the  rubbish  of  the  theologians  mixed  up  with  it." 

Interested  as  Arnold  was  in  the  ongoings  of  the  outer  world,  he 
intensely  enjoyed  his  ov/n  family  and  fireside.  At  Laleham,  at 
llugby,  but  above  all,  in  his  country  home  at  Fox  How,  near  Rydal, 
in  Westmoreland,  his  heart  ran  over  with  expressions  of  joy  and 
deep  delight.  Fox  How  was  the  paradise  to  which  he  retreated  from 
the  turmoil  of  the  world.  "It  is  with  a  mixed  feeling  of  solemnity 
and  tenderness,"  he  said,  "  that  I  regard  our  mountain  nest^  whose 


60  BPJEF  BIOGllAPHrEa 

surpassing  sweetness,  I  think  I  may  safely  say,  adds  a  positive  hap- 
piness to  every  one  of  my  waking  hours  passed  in  it."  When  absent 
from  Fox  How,  it  *'  dwelt  on  his  memory  as  a  vision  of  beauty,  from 
one  vacation  to  another;*'  and  when  present  there,  he  felt  that  "no 
hasty  or  excited  admiration  of  a  tourist  could  be  compared  with  the 
quiet  and  homely  delight  of  having  the  mountains  and  streams  as 
fainiliar  objects,  connected  with  all  the  enjoyments  of  home,  one's 
family,  one's  books,  and  one's  friends."  Among  the  delicious  scenery 
of  Italy,  he  said,  that  *'if  he  stayed  more  than  a  day  at  the  most 
beautiful  spot  in  the  world,  it  would  only  bring  on  a  longing  for  Fox 
How;"  and  it  was  his  repeated  wish  that,  when  he  died,  ''his  bones 
should  go  to  Grasmere  churchyard,  to  lie  under  the  yews  which 
Wordsworth  planted,  and  to  have  the  Kotha,  with  its  deep  and  silent 
pools,  passing  by." 

This  true  and  noble  man  died  too  soon  for  himself  and  the  world. 
He  was  suddenly  cut  off,  in  the  midst  of  his  labors,  on  the  morning 
of  the  12th  of  June,  1842,  in  tlie  forty-seventh  year  of  his  age.  He 
died,  but  he  lelt  a  legacy  of  pure  thoughts,  earnest  impulses,  and 
noble  aspirations  to  his  race,  and  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  world 
will  not  willingly  let  die. 


HUGH  miller: 


MEN  may  leam  mnch  that  is  good  from  each  other's  lives,— 
especially  from  good  men's  lives.  Men  who  live  in  oiir 
daily  sight,  as  well  as  men  who  have  lived  before  us,  and 
handed  down  illustrious  examples  for  our  imitation,  are  the  most 
valuable  practical  teachers.  For  it  is  not  mere  literature  that 
makes  men, — it  is  real,  practical  life,  that  chiefly  molds  our  nature, 
enables  us  to  work  out  our  own  education,  and  to  build  up  our  own 
character. 

Hugh  Miller  has  very  strikingly  worked  out  this  idea  in  his  admi- 
rable autobiography,  entitled,  **  My  "Schools  and  Schoolmasters."  It 
is  extremely  interesting,  even  fascinating,  as  a  book;  but  it  is  more 
than  an  ordinary  book,— it  might  almost  be  called  an  institution.  It 
is  the  history  of  the  formation  of  a  truly  noble  and  independent  char- 
acter in  the  humblest  condition  of  life, — the  condition  in  which  a 
large  mass  of  the  people  of  this  country  are  born  and  brought  up; 
and  it  teaches  all,  but  especially  poor  men,  what  it  is  in  the  power 
of  each  to  accomplish  for  himself.  The  life  of  Hugh  Miller  is  full 
of  lessons  of  self-help  and  self-respect,  and  shows  the  efficacy  of 
these  in  working  out  for  a  man  an  honorable  competence  and  a  solid 
reputation.  It  may  not  be  that  every  man  has  the  thew  and  sinew, 
the  large  brain  and  heart  of  a  Hugh  Miller, — for  there  is  much  in 
what  we  may  call  the  breed  of  a  man,  the 'defect  of  which  no  mere 
educational  advantages  can  supply;  but  every  man  can  at  least  do 
much,  by  the  help  of  such  examples  of  his,  to  elevate  himself,  and 
build  up  his  moral  and  intellectual  character  on  a  solid  foundation. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  breed  of  a  man.  In  Hugh  Miller  we  have  an 
embodiment  of  that  most  vigorous  and  energetic  element  of  English 
national  life, — the  Norwegian  and  Danish.  In  times  long,  long  ago, 
the  daring  and  desperate  pirates  of  these  nations  swarmed  along  the 
eastern  coasts.  In  England  they  were  resisted  by  force  of  arms,  for 
61 


ea  BIILEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

the  prize  of  England's  crown  was  a  rich  one;  yet,  by  dint  of  num- 
bers, valor  and  bravery,  they  made  good  their  footing  in  England, 
and  even  governed  the  eastern  part  of  it  by  their  own  kings  until 
the  time  of  Alfred  the  Great.  And  to  this  day  the  Danish  element 
amongst  the  population  of  the  east  and  northeast  of  England  is  by 
far  the  prevailing  one.  But  in  Scotland  it  was  different.  They 
never  reigned  there;  but  they  settled  and  planted  all  the  eastern 
coasts.  The  land  was  poor  and  thinly  peopled;  and  the  Scottish 
kings  and  chiefs  were  too  weak — generally  too  much  occupied  by 
intestine  broils— to  molest  or  dispossess  them.  Then  these  Danes 
and  Norwegians  led  a  seafaring  life,  were  sailors  and  fishermen, 
which  the  native  Scots  were  not.  So  they  settled  down  in  all  the 
bays  and  bights  along  the  coast  of  Scotland,  and  took  entire  pos- 
session of  the  Orkneys,  Shetland,  and  Western  Isles,  the  Shetlands 
having  been  held  by  the  crown  of  Denmark  down  to  a  comparatively 
recent  period.  They  never  amalgamated  with  the  Scotch  High- 
landers; and  to  this  day  they  speak  a  different  hinguage,  and  follow 
different  pursuits.  The  Highlander  was  a  hunter,  a  herdsman,  a 
warrior,  and  fished  in  the  fresh  waters  only.  The  descendants  of 
the  Norwegians,  or  the  Lowlanders,  as  they  came  to  be  called,  fol- 
lowed the  sea,  fished  in  salt  waters,  cultivated  the  soil,  and  engaged 
in  trade  and  commerce.  Hence  the  marked  difference  between  the 
population  of  the  town  of  Cromarty — where  Hugh  Miller  was  born, 
in  1832 — and  the  population  only  a  few  miles  inland;  the  towns- 
people speaking  Lowland  Scotch,  and  being  dependent  for  their 
subsistence  mainly  on  the  sea, — the  others  speaking  Gaelic,  and  liv- 
ing solely  upon  the  land. 

These  Norwegian  colonists  of  Cromarty  held  in  their  blood  the 
very  same  piratical  propensities  which  characterized  their  forefathers 
who  followed  the  Vikings.  Hugh  Miller  first  saw  the  light  in  a 
long,  low-built  house,  built  by  his  great-grandfather,  John  Feddes, 
"  one  of  the  last  of  the  buccaneers;"  this  cottr.ge  having  been  built, 
as  Hugh  Miller  himself  says  he  has  every  reason  to  believe,  with 
"Spanish  gold."  All  his  ancestors  were  sailors  and  seafaring  men; 
when  boys  they  had  taken  to  the  water  as  naturally  as  ducklings. 
Traditions  of  adventures  by  sea  were  rife  in  tke  family.  Of  his 
grand-uncles,  one  had  sailed  round  the  world  with  Anson,  had 
assisted  in  burning  Pacta,  and  in  boarding  the  Manilla  galleon; 
another,  a  handsome  and  powerful  man,  perished  at  sea  in  a  storm; 
and  his  grandfather  was  dashed  overboard  by  the  jib-boom  of  his 
little  vessel  when  entering  the  Cromarty  Firth,  and  never  rose  again. 
The  son  of  this  last,  Hugh  Miller's  father,  was  sent  into  the  country 
by  his  mother  to  work  upon  a  farm,  thus  to  rescue  him,  if  possible, 
from  the  hereditary  fate  of  the  family.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  The 
propensity  for  the  salt  water,  the  very  instinct  of  the  breed,  was  too 
powerful  within  him.  He  left  the  farm,  went  to  sea,  became  a  man- 
of-war's  man,  was  in  the  battle  with  the  Dutch  off  the  Dogger  Bank» 


HUGH  MILLER.  63 

^iled  all  over  tho  world,  then  took  "French  leave  "of  the  royal 
navy,  returned  to  Cromarty  with  money  enough  to  buy  a  sloop  and 
engage  in  trade  on  his  own  account.  But  this  vessel  was  one  stormy 
night  knocked  to  pieces  on  the  bar  of  Findhorn,  the  master  and  his 
men  escaping  with  difficulty;  then  another  vessel  was  fitted  out  by 
him,  by  the  help  of  his  friends,  and  in  this  he  was  trading  from 
place  to  place  when  Hugh  Miller  was  born. 

What  a  vivid  picture  of  sea  life,  as  seen  from  the  shore  at  least,  do 
we  obtain  from  the  early  chapters  of  Miller's  life!  "  I  retain,"  says  he, 
•*  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  joy  which  used  to  light  up  the  household 
on  my  father's  arrival,  and  how  I  learned  to  distinguish  for  myself 
his  sloop  when  in  the  offing,  by  the  two  slim  stripes  of  white  that  ran 
along  her  sides,  and  her  two  square  topsails."  But  a  terrible  calamity 
— though  an  ordinary  one  in  sea-life — suddenly  plunged  the  sailor's 
family  in  grief;  and  he,  too,  was  gathered  to  the  same  grave  in  which 
so  m  my  of  his  ancestors  lay, — the  deep  ocean.  A  terrible  storm 
overtook  his  vessel  near  Peterhead ;  numbers  of  ships  were  lost  along 
the  coast;  vessel  after  vessel  came  ashore,  and  the  beach  was  strewn 
with  wrecks  and  dead  bodies,  but  no  remnant  of  either  the  ship  or 
bodies  of  Miller  and  his  crew  were  ever  cast  up.  It  was  supposed 
that  the  little  sloop,  heavily  laden,  and  laboring  in  a  mountainous 
sea,  must  have  started  a  plank  and  foundered.  Hugh  Miller  was 
but  a  child  at  the  time,  having  only  completed  his  fifth  year.  The 
following  remarkable  "appearance,"  very  much  in  Mrs.  Crowe's 
way,  made  a  strong  impression  upon  him  at  the  time.  The  house- 
door  had  blown  open,  in  the  gray  of  evening,  and  the  boy  was  sent 
by  his  mother  to  shut  it. 

"Day  had  not  wholly  disappeared,  but  it  was  fast  posting  on  to 
night,  and  a  gray  haze  spread  a  neutral  tint  of  dimness  over  every 
more  distant  object,  but  left  the  nearer  ones  comparatively  distinct, 
when  I  saw  at  the  open  door,  within  less  than  a  yard  of  my  breast. 
as  plainly  as  ever  I  saw  anything,  a  dissevered  hand  and  arm 
stretched  towards  me.  Hand  and 'arm  were  apparently  those  of  a 
female;  they  bore  a  livid  and  sodden  appearance ;  and  directly  front- 
ing me,  where  the  body  ought  to  have  been,  there  was  only  blank, 
transparent  space,  through  v/hich  I  could  see  the  dim  forms  of  the 
objects  beyond.  I  was  fearfully  startled,  and  ran  shrieking  to  my 
mother,  telling  what  I  had  seen;  and  the  house-girl,  whom  she  next 
sent  to  shut  the  door,  apparently  affected  by  my  terror,  also  returned 
fripjhtened,  and  said  that  she,  too,  had  seen  the  woman's  hand; 
which,  however,  did  not  seem  to  be  the  case.  And  finally,  my 
mother  going  to  the  door,  saw  nothing,  though  she  appeared  much 
impressed  by  the  extremeness  of  my  terror,  and  the  minuteness  of 
my  description.  I  communicate  the  story  as  it  lies  fixed  in  my 
memory,  without  attempting  to  explain  it;  its  coincidence  with  the 
probable  time  of  my  father's  death,  seems  at  least  curious." 

The  little  boy  longed  for  his  father's  return,  and  continued  to  gaze 


64  BRIEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

across  the  deep,  watching  for  the  sloop  v/ith  its  two  tripes  of  white 
along  the  sides.  Every  morning  he  went  wandering  about  the  little 
harbor,  to  examine  the  vessels  which  had  come  in  during  the  night; 
and  he  continued  to  look  out  across  the  Moray  Frith  long  after  any- 
body else  had  ceased  to  liope.  But  months  and  years  passed,  and  the 
white  stripes  and  square  topsails  of  his  father's  sloop  he  never  saw 
again.  Tiie  boy  was  the  sou  of  a  sailor's  widow,  and  so  grew  up,  in 
sight  of  the  sea,  and  with  the  same  love  of  it  t-iat  characterized  his 
father.  But  he  was  sent  to  school;  first  to  a  dame  school,  where  he 
learned  his  letters;  he  then  worked  his  way  through  the  Catechism, 
the  Proverbs,  and  the  New  Testament,  and  emerged  into  the  golden 
region  of  "iSinbad  the  Sailor,"  "Jack  the Giant-Killer,"  ••Beauty and 
the  Beast,"  and  "Aladdin  and  the  Wonderful  Lamp."  Other  books 
followed,— the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Cook's  and  Anson's  Voyages,  and 
Blind  Harry  the  Ithymer's  History  of  "Wallace;  which  first  awoke 
within  him  a  strong  feeling  of  Scottish  patriotism.  And  thus  his 
childhood  grew,  on  proper  child-like  nourishment.  His  uncles  were 
men  of  solid  sense  and  sound  judgment,  though  uncultured  by 
scholastic  education.  One  was  a  local  antiquarj%  by  trade  a  working 
harness-maker;  the  other  was  of  a  strong  religious  turn:  he  was  a 
working  Ciirtwright,  and  in  early  life  had  been  a  sailor,  engaged  in 
nearly  all  Nelson's  famous  battles.  The  examples  and  the  conver- 
sation of  these  men  were  for  the  growing  boy  worth  nny  quantity  of 
school  primers:  he  learned  from  them  far  more  than  mere  books  could 
teach  him. 

But  his  school  education  was  not  neglected  either.  From  the 
dame's  school  he  was  transferred  to  tlie  town's  grammar-school, 
where,  amidst  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  other  boys  and  girls,  he 
received  his  real  school  education.  But  it  did  not  amount  to  much. 
There,  however,  the  boy  learned  life, — to  hold  liis  own,— to  try  his 
powers  with  other  boys, — phj'sically  and  morally,  as  well  as  schol- 
astically.  The  school  brought  out  the  stufi"  that  was  in  him  in  many 
ways,  but  the  mere  book-learning  was  about  the  least  part  of  the  in- 
struction. 

The  school-house  looked  out  on  the  beach,  fronting  the  opening 
of  the  Frith,  and  not  a  boat  or  a  ship  could  pass  in  or  out  of  the 
harbor  of  Cromarty  without  the  boys  seeing  it.  They  knew  the  rig 
of  every  craft,  and  could  draw  them'on  their  slates.  Boats  unloaded 
their  glittering  cargoes  on  the  beach,  where  the  process  of  gutting 
afterwards  went  busily  on  ;  and  to  add  to  the  bustle,  there  was  a 
large  killing-placs  for  pigs  not  thirty  yards  from  the  school  door, 
"where  from  eighty  to  a  hundred  pigs  used  sometimes  to  die  for 
the  general  good  iii  a  single  day  ;  and  it  was  a  great  matter  to  hear, 
at  occasional  inf;ervals,  the  roar  of  death  rising  high  over  the  gen- 
eral murmur  within,  or  to  be  told  by  some  comrade,  returned  from 
his  five  minutes'  leave  of  absence,  that  a  hero  of  a  pig  had  taken 
three  blows  of  a  hatchet  ere  it  fell,  and  that,  even  after  its  subjeo- 


HUGH  MILLEIl.  65 


r 

l^^loii  to  the  sticking  process,  it  bad  got  hold  of  Jock  Keddie's  hand 
m  its  mouth,  and  almost  smashed  his  thumb."  Certainly  it  is  not 
in  eyery  grammar-school  that  such  lessons  as  these  are  taught. 

Miller  was  })ut  to  Latin,  but  made  little  progress  in  it,— his  mas- 
ter had  no  method,  and  the  boy  was  too  fond  of  telling  stories  to  hia 
schoolfellows  in  school  hours  to  make  much  progress.  Cock-light- 
ing was  a  school  practice  in  those  days,  the  master  having  a  }-tr- 
quisite  of  twopence  for  every  cock  that  was  entered  by  the  boys  on 
the  diiys  of  the  yearly  fight.  But  Miller  had  no  love  for  this  spcr.:, 
although  he  paid  his  entry  money  with  the  rest.  In  the  meantimo 
his  miscellaneous  reading  extended,  and  he  gathered  pickings  of 
odd  knowledge  from  all  sorts  of  odd  quarters,  —from  workmen,  car- 
penters, fishermen  and  sailors,  old  women,  and,  above  all,  from  the 
old  boulders  strewed  along  the  shores  of  the  Cromarty  Frith.  With 
a  big  hammer,  which  had  belonged  to  his  great-grandfather,  John 
Feddes,  the  buccaneer,  the  boy  went  about  chipping  the  stones,  and 
thus  early  accumulating  specimens  of  mica,  porphyry,  garnet,  and 
such  like,  exhibiting  them  to  his  Uncle  Alexander,  and  other  admir- 
ing relations.  Often,  too,  he  had  a  day  in  the  woods  to  visit  his 
uncle,  when  working  as  a  sawj^er, — his  trade  of  cartw^ight  having 
failed.  And  there,  too,  the  boy's  attention  was  excited  by  the  pecu- 
liar geological  curiosities  which  lay  in  his  way.  While  searching 
among  the  stones  and  rocks  on  the  beach,  he  was  sometimes  asked, 
in  humble  irony,  by  the  farm  servants  who  came  to  load  their  carts 
with  sea-weed,  whether  he  "was  gettin'  siller  in  the  stanes,"  but 
was  so  unlucky  as  never  to  be  able  to  answer  their  question  in  the 
affirmative.  Uncle  Sandy  seems  to  have  been  a  close  observer  of 
nature,  and  in  his  humble  way  had  his  theories  of  ancient  sea- 
beaches,  the  flood,  and  the  formation  of  the  world,  which  he  duly 
imparted  to  the  wondering  youth.  Together  they  explored  caves, 
roamed  the  beach  for  crabs  and  lobsters,  whose  habits  Uncle  Sandy 
could  well  describe  ;  he  also  knew  all  about  moths  and  butterflies, 
spiders,  and  bees, — in  short,  was  a  born  natural-history  man,  so 
that  the  boy  regarded  him  in  the  light  of  a  professor,  and,  doubt- 
less, thus  early  obtained  from  him  the  bias  toward  his  future 
studies. 

There  was  the  usual  number  of  hair-breadth  escapes  in  Miller's 
boy-life.  One  of  them,  when  he  and  a  companion  had  got  cooped 
up  in  a  sea  cave,  and  could  not  return  because  of  the  tide,  reminds 
us  of  the  exciting  scene  described  in  Scott's  Antiquary.  There  were 
school-boy  tricks,  and  school-boy  rambles,  mischief-making  in  com- 
panionship with  other  boys,  of  whom  he  was  often  the  leader.  Left 
very  much  to  himself,  ho  was  becoming  a  big,  wild,  insubordinate 
boy ;  and  it  becxime  obvious  that  the  time  was  now  come  when 
Hugh  Miller  must  enter  that  world-wide  school  in  which  toil  and 
hard-ship  are  tho  severe  but  noble  masters.  After  a  severe  fight  and 
wrestling-match  with  his  schoolmaster,  he  left  school,  avenging  him- 

BIOGEAPHIES 2 


66  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

aelf  for  his  defeat  by  penning  and  sending  by  the  teacher  that  very 
night,  a  copy  of  satiric  verses,  entitled  "The  Pedagogue,"  which 
occasioned  a  good  deal  of  merriment  in  the  place. 

His  boyhood  over,  and  his  school  training  ended,  Hugh  Miller 
raust  now  face  the  world  of  toil.  His  uncles  were  most  anxious  that 
he  should  become  a  minister;  and  were  even  willing  to  pay  his  col- 
lege expenses,  though  the  labor  of  their  hands  formed  their  only 
wealth.  The  youth,  however,  had  conscientious  objections:  he  did 
not  feel  caVed  to  the  work;  and  the  uncles,  confessing  that  lie  was 
right,  gave  up  their  point.  Hugh  was  according  apprenticed  to  the 
trade  of  his  choice, — that  of  a  working  stone-mason;  and  he  began 
his  laboring  career  in  a  quarry  looking  out  upon  the  Cromarty  Frith. 
This  quarry  proved  one  of  his  best  schools.  The  remarkable  geo- 
logical formations  which  it  displayed  awakened  his  curiosity.  The 
bar  of  deep-red  stone  beneath,  and  the  bar  of  pale-red  clay  above, 
were  noted  by  the  young  quarryman,  who,  even  in  such  unpromis- 
ing subjects,  found  matter  for  observation  and  reflection.  Where 
other  men  saw  nothing,  he  detected  analogies,  differences,  and 
peculiarities,  which  set  him  a-thinking.  He  simply  kept  his  eyes 
and  his  mind  open;  was  sober,  diligent,  and  persevering;  and  this 
was  the  secret  of  his  intellectual  growth. 

Hugh  Miller  takes  a  cheerful  view  of  the  lot  of  labor.  While 
others  groan  because  they  have  to  work  hard  for  their  bread,  he  says 
that  work  is  full  of  pleasure,  of  profit,  and  of  materials  for  self- 
i  aiprovement.  He  holds  that  honest  labor  is  the  best  of  all  teachers, 
and  that  the  school  of  toil  is  the  best  and  noblest  of  all  schools,  save 
only  the  Christian  one, — a  school  in  which  the  ability  of  being  use- 
ful is  imparted,  and  the  spirit  of  independence  communicated,  and 
the  habit  of  persevering  effort  acquired.  He  is  even  of  opinion  that 
the  training  of  the  mechanic,  by  the  exercise  which  it  gives  to  his 
observant  faculties,  from  his  daily  dealings  with  things  actual  and 
>>ractical,  and  the  close  experience  of  life  which  he  invariably 
iicquires,  is  more  favorable  to  his  growth  as  a  man,  emphatically 
Hpeaking,  than  the  training  which  is  afforded  by  any  other  condition 
oi  life.  And  the  array  of  great  names  which  he  cites  in  support  of 
his  statement  is  certainly  a  large  one.  Nor  is  the  condition  of  the 
h/erage  v/ ell-paid  operative  at  all , so  dolorous,  according  to  Hugh 
Miller,  as  many  modern  writers  would  have  it.  *-I  worked  as  an 
operative  mason,"  says  he,  "for  fifteen  years,-— ho  inconsiderable 
portion  of  the  more  active  part  of  a  man's  lifj;  but  the  time  was  not 
altogether  lost.  I  enjoyed  in  those  years  fully  the  average  amount 
of  happiness,  and  learned  to  know  more  of  the  Scottish  people  than 
13  generally  known.  Let  mo  add,  that  from  the  close  of  the  first 
year  in  which  I  wrought  as  a  journeyman,  until  I  took  final  leave  of 
the  mallet  and  chisel,  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  want  a  shilling: 
that  my  two  uncles,my  grand  father,  and  the  mason  with  whom  I  served 
my  apprenticeship — all  worldng-men — had  had  a  similar  experience; 


I 


HUGK   MILLEK. 


and  that  it  was  the  experience  of  my  father  also.  I  cannot  doubt 
that  deserving  mechanics  may,  in  exceptional  cases,  be  exposed  to 
want;  but  I  can  as  little  doubt  that  the  cases  are  exceptional,  and 
that  much  of  the  suffering  of  the  class  is  a  consequence  either  of 
improvidence  on  the  part  of  the  completely  skilled,  or  of  a  course 
of  trifling  during4he  term  of  apprenticeship, — quite  as  common  as 
trifling  at  school,— that  always  lands  those  who  indulge  in  it  in  the 
hapless  position  of  the  inferior  workman." 

There  is  much  honest  truth  in  this  observation.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  clear  that  the  circumstances  under  which  Hugii  Miller 
was  brought  up  and  educated  are  not  enjoyed  by  all  workmen, — 
are,  indeed,  experienced  by  comparatively  few.  In  the  first  place, 
his  parentage  was  good,  his  father  and  mother  were  a  self-helping, 
honest,  intelligent  pair,  in  humble  circumstances,  but  yet  compara- 
tively comfortable.  Thus  his  Barly  education  was  not  neglected. 
His  relations  were  sober,  industrious,  and  "God-fearing,"  as  they 
say  in  the  north.  His  uncles  were  not  his  least  notable  instructors. 
One  of  them  was  a  close  observer  of  nature,  and  in  some  sort  a  sci- 
entific man,  possessed  of  a  small  but  good  library  of  books.  Then 
Hugh  Miller's  own  constitution  was  happily  framed.  As  one  of  his 
companions  once  said  to  him,  *'Ah,  Miller,  you  have  stamina  in 
you,  and  will  force  your  way  ;  but  I  want  strength  ;  the  world  will 
never  hear  of  me."  It  is  the  stamina  which  Hugh  Miller  possessed 
by  nature,  that  were  born  in  him,  and  w-ere  carefull}^  nurtured  by 
his  parents,  that  enabled  him  as  a  working-man  to  rise,  while  thou- 
sands would  have  sunk  or  merely  plodded  on  through  life  in  the 
humble  station  in  which  they  were  born.  And  this  difference  in 
stamina  and  other  circumstances  is  not  sufficiently  taken  into  ac- 
count by  Hugh  Miller  in  the  course  of  the  interesting,  and,  on  the 
whole,  exceedingly  profitable  remarks,  which  he  makes  in  his  auto- 
biography on  the  condition  of  the  laboring  poor. 

We  can  afford,  in  our  brief  space,  to  give  only  a  very  rapid  outline 
of  Hugh  Miller's  fifteen  3-ears'  life  as  a  workman,  lie  worked  away 
in  the  quarry  for  some  time,-  losing  many  of  his  finger-nails  by 
bruises  and  accidents,  growing  fast,  but  gradually  growing  stronger, 
and  obtaining  a  fair  knowledge  of  his  craft  as  a  stone-hewer.  He 
was  early  subjected  to  the  temptation  which  besets  most  young 
workmen, — that  of  drink.  But  he  resisted  it  bravelj^  His  own 
account  of  it  is  worthy  pf  extract : — 

When  overwrought,  and  In  my  denressed  moods,  I  learned  to  regard  the 
ardent  splrtts  of  the  dram-shop  fis  hij^ti  luxuries ;  they  gave  lis-litne^s  and 
energy  to  both  body  and  mind,  and  substituted  for  a  state  of  dullne-ss  and 
gloom  one  of  exhilaration  and  enjoyment.  IJsquehhne  was  simply  happiness 
doled  out  by  the  glass,  and  sold  by  the  gill.  The  drinking  usaares  of  the  pro- 
fession In  which  I  labored  were  at  this  time  many ;  when  a  foundation  was 
laid  the  workmen  were  treated  to  drink;  they  were  treated  to  drink  when' 
the  walls  were  leveled  for  laying  the  Joists ;  they  were  treated  to  drink  when 
the  building  was  finished ;  they  were  treated  to  diink  when  an  apprentici^. 


68  BRIEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

joined  the  squad ;  treated  to  drink  when  his  *  apron  was  washed ' ;  treated  to 
drink  when  his  '  time  was  out ' ;  and  occasionally  they  learned  to  treat  one 
anotlier  to  drink.  In  laying  down  the  foundation  stone  of  one  of  the  larger 
houses  built  this  year  by  Uncle  David  and  his  partner,  the  workmen  had  a 
royal  '  founding  pint,'  and  two  whole  glasses  of  the  whisky  came  to  my 
share  A  full-grown  man  would  not  nave  deemed  a  gill  of  usquebhaean 
overdose,  but  it  was  considerably  too  much  forme;  and  av  hen  the  party 
broke  up,  and  I  got  home  to  my  books,  I  found,  as  i  opened  the  pages  of  a 
favorite  author,  the  letters  dancing  before  my  eyes,  and  that  1  could  no  longer 
liiasier  tiie  sense.  1  have  the  volume  at  present  before  me.  a  small  edition  of 
the  Essays  of  J>acon.  a  gooideal  worn  at  tlie  corners  by  the  friction  of  the 
pocket,  for  of  Bacon  I  never  tired.  The  condition  Into  which  I  had  brought 
myself  was.  I  felt,  one  of  degradation.  I  had  sunk,  by  my  own  act,  for  vhe 
time,  to  a  lower  level  of  IntolUgence  than  that  on  which  it  was  my  privilege 
to  ba  placed ,  and  though  the  state  could  have  been  no  very  favorable  one  for 
forming  a  resolution,  I  In  that  liour  determined  that  1  should  never  again  sac- 
rifice my  capacity  of  intellectual  enjoyment  to  a  drinking  usage ;  and,  with 
God's  help,  1  was  enabled  to  hold  my  determination. 

A  young  working  mason,  reading  Bacon's  Essays  in  his  by -hours, 
must  certainly  bo  regarded  as  a  remarkable  man  ;  but  not  less  n- 
markable  is  the  exhibition  of  moral  energy  and  noble  self-denial  in 
tho  instance  wa  have  cited. 

It  was  while  working  as  a  mason's  apprentice,  that  the  lower  Old 
Eed  Sandstone  along  the  Bay  of  Cromarty  presented  itself  to  his 
notice;  and  his  curiosity  was  excited  and  kept  alive  by  the  infinite 
organic  remains,  principally  of  old  and  extinct  species  of  fishes, 
ferns,  ammonites,  whi«h  lay  revealed  along  the  coasts  by  the  wash- 
ings of  waves,  or  were  exposed  by  the  stroke  of  his  mason's  hammer. 
He  never  lost  sight  of  this  subject;  went  on  accumulating  observa- 
tions and  comparing  formations,  until  at  length,  when  no  longer  a 
working  mason,  many  years  afterwards,  he  gave  to  the  world  his 
highly  interesting  work  on  the  Old  Red  Sandstone,  which  at  once 
established  his  reputation  as  an  accomplished  scientific  geologist. 
But  this  work  was  the  fruit  of  long  years  of  patient  observation  and 
research.  As  he  modestly  states  in  his  autobiography,  'Hheonly 
merit  to  which  I  lay  claim  in  the  case  is  that  of  patient  research,— a 
merit  in  which  whoever  wills  may  rival  or  surpass  me;  and  this 
humble  fixculty  of  patience,  when  rightly  developed,  may  lead  to 
more  extraordinary  developments  of  idea  than  even  genius  itself." 
And  he  adds  how  he  deciphered  the  divine  ideas  in  the  mechanism 
and  framework  of  creatures  in  the  second  stage  of  vertebrate 
existence.  •        , 

But  it  was  long  before  Hugh  Miller  accumulated  his  extensive  geo- 
logical observations,  and  acquired  that  self-culture  which  enabled 
him  to  shape  them  into  proper  form.  Pie  went  on  diligently  work- 
ing at  his  trade,  but  always  observing  and  always  reelecting.  He 
says  he  could  not  avoid  being  an  observer;  and  that  the  necessity 
which  made  him  a  mason,  made  him  also  a  geologist.  In  the  winter 
months,  during  which  mason-work  is  generally  superseded  in  coun- 
try* places,    ho  occupied  his  time  with   reading,  sometimes  with 


HUGH  MILLES.  69 

visiting  country  friends, — persons  of  an  intelligent  caste,— and  often 
he  strolled  away  amongst  old  Scandinavian  ruins  and  Piodsh  forts, 
speculating  about  their  origin  and  history.  He  made  good  use  of  his 
leisure.  And  when  spring  came  round  again,  he  would  set  out  into 
the  Highlands,  to  work  at  building  and  hewing  jobs  with  a  squad  of 
other  masons, — working  hard,  and  living  chieiiy  on  oatmeal  brose. 
Some  of  the  descriptions  given  by  him  of  life  in  the  remote  High- 
land districts  are  extremely  graphic  and  picturesque,  and  have  all 
the  charm  of  entire  novelty.  The  kind  of  accommodation  which  he 
experienced  may  be  inferred  from  the  observation  made  by  a  High- 
land laird  to  his  uncle  James,  as  to  the  use  of  a  crazy  old  building 
left  standing  beside  a  group  of  neat  modern  offices.  •*  He  found  it 
of  great  convenience,"  he  said,  "every  time  his  speculations  brought 
a  drove  of  pigs,  or  a  squad  of  masons,  that  way."  This  sort  of  life 
and  its  surrounding  circumstances  were  not  of  a  poetical  cast;  yet 
the  yonth  was  now  about  the  poetizing  age,  and  during  his  solitary 
rambles  after  his  day's  work,  by  the  banks  of  the  Conon,  he  medi- 
tated poetry,  aud  began  to  make  verses.  He  would  sometimes  write 
them  out  upon  his  mason's  kit.  while  the  rain  was  dropping  through 
the  roof  of  the  apartment  upon  the  paper  on  which  he  wrote.  It 
was  a  rough  life  of  poetical  musing,  yet  he  always  contrived  to  mix 
up  a  high  degree  of  intellectual  exercise  and  enjoyment  with  what- 
ever manual  labor  he  was  employed  upon;  and  this,  after  all,  is  one 
of  the  secrets  of  a  happy  life.  While  observilig  scenery  and  natural 
history,  he  also  seems  to  have  very  closely  observed  the  characters 
of  his  fellow-workmen,  and  he  gives  us  vivid  and  life-like  portaits 
of  some  of  the  more  remarkable  of  them  in  his  Autobiography. 
There  were  some  rough  and  occasionally  very  wicked  fellows  among 
his  fellow-workmen,  but  he  had  strength  of  character,  and  sufficient 
inbred  sound  principle,  to  withstand  their  contamination.  He  was 
also  proud, — and  pride  in  its  proper  place  is  an  excellent  thing, — 
particularly  that  sort  of  pride  which  makes  a  man  revolt  from  doing 
a  mean  action,  or  anything  which  would  bring  discredit  on  the 
family.  This  is  the  sort  of  true  nobility  which  serves  poor  men  in 
good  stead  sometimes,  and  it  certainly  served  Hugh  Miller  well. 

His  apprenticeship  ended,  he  "took  jobs"  for  himself, — built  a 
cottaf^e  for  his  Aunt  Jenny,  which  still  stands,  and  after  that  went  out 
working  as  journeyman -mason.  In  his  spare  hours,  he  was  improv- 
ing himself  by  the  study  of  practical  geometry,  and  made  none  the 
worse  a  mason  on  that  account .  While  engaged  in  helping  to  build  a 
mansion  on  the  western  coast  of  Ross-shire,  he  extended  his  geologi- 
cal and  botanical  observations,  noting  all  that  was  remarkable  in  the 
formation  of  the  district.  He  also  drew  his  inferences  from  the 
condition  of  the  people, — being  very  much  struck,  above  other 
things,  with  the  remarkably  contented  state  of  the  Celtic  popu- 
lation, although  living  in  filth  and  misery.  On  this  he  shrewdly 
observes;  "it  was  one  of  the  palpable  characteristics  of  our  Scottish 


70  BRIEF  BIOGBAPHIES. 

Highlanders,  for  at  least  the  first  thirty  years  of  the  century,  that 
they  were  contented  enough,  as  a  people,  to  tind  more  to  pity  than 
to  envy  in  the  condition  of  their  Lowland  neighbors;  and  I  remem- 
ber that  at  this  time,  and  for  years  after,  I  used  to  deem  the  trait  a 
good  one.  I  have  now,  however  my  doubts  on.  the  subject,  and  am 
not  quiet  sure  whether  a  content  so  gener:d  as  to  be  national  may 
not,  in  certain  circumstances,  be  rather  a  vice  than  a  virtue.  It  is 
certainly  no  virtue,  when  it  has  the  effect  of  arresting  either  indi- 
viduals or  peoples  in  their  course  of  development ;  and  is  periously 
allied  to  great  suffering,  when  tlie  men  who  exemplify  it  are  so 
thoroughly  happy  amid  the  mediocrities  of  the  present  that  they 
fail  to  make  j)ro vision  for  the  contingencies  of  the  future." 

Trade  becoming  slack  in  the  North,  Hugh  Miller  took  ship  for 
Edinburgh,  where  building  was  going  briskly  oq  (in  1824),  to  seek 
for  employment  there  as  a  stone-hewer.  « He  succeeded,  and  lived 
as  a  workman  at  Niddry,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  city,  for  some 
time  ;  pursuing  at  the  same  time  his  geological  observations  in  a 
new  field,  Niddry  being  located  on  the  carboniferous  system.  Here 
also  he  met  with  an  entirely  new  class  of  men, — the  colliers, — many 
of  whom,  strange  to  say,  had  been  horn  slaves;  the  manumission  of 
the  Scotch  colliers  having  been  effected  in  comparatively  modern 
times, — as  late  as  the  year  1775  I  So  that,  after  all,  Scotland  is  not 
bO  very  far  ahead  of  the  serfdom  of  Russia. 

Returning  to  the  North  again,  Miller  next  began  business  for 
himself  in  a  small  way,  as  a  hewer  of  tombstones  for  the  good  folks 
of  Cromarty.  This  change  of  employment  was  necessary,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  hewer's  disease,  caused  by  inhaling  stone- dust,  which 
settles  in  the  lungs,  and  generally  leads  to  rapid  consumption, 
afflicting  him  with  its  premonitory  symptoms.  The  strength  of  his 
constitution  happily  enabled  him  to  throw  off  the  malady,  but  bis 
lungs  never  fairly  recovered  their  former  vigor.  Work  not  being 
very  plentiful,  he  wrote  poems,  some  of  which  appeared  in  the  news- 
papers; and  in  course  of  time  a  small  collection  of  these  pieces  was 
published  by  subscription.  He  very  soon,  however,  gave  up  poetry 
writing,  finding  that  his  humble  accomplishment  of  verse  was  too 
narrow  to  contain  his  thinking  ;  so  next  time  he  wrote  a  book  it  was 
in  prose,  and  vigorous  prose  too,  far  better  than  his  verse.  But 
Miller  had  meanwhile  been  doing  what  was  better  than  either  cut- 
ting tombstones  or  writing  poetry  :  he  had  been  building  up  his 
character^  and  thereby  securing  the  respect  of  all  who  knew  him. 
So  that,  when  a  branch  of  the  Commercial  Bank  was  opened  iu 
Cromarty,  and  the  manager  cast  about  him  to  make  selection  of  an 
accountant,  whom  should  he  pitch  upon  but  Hugh  Miller,  the  stone- 
mason? This  was  certainly  a  most  extraordinary  selection  ;  but 
why  was  it  made?  Simply  because  of  the  excellence  of  the  man's 
character,  He  had  proved  himself  a  true  and  a  thoroughly  excel- 
lent and  trustworthy  man  in  a  humble  capacity  of  life,  and  the 


HUGH  MILLER  71 

inference  was,  that  he  would  carry  the  samo  principles  of  concliict 
into  another  and  higher  sphere  of  action.  Hugh  Miller  hesitated 
to  accept  the  office,  having  but  little  knowledge  of  accounts,  and  no 
experience  in  book-keeping  ;  but  the  manager  knew  his  pluck  and 
determined*  perseverance  in  mastering  whatever  he  undertook; 
above  all,  he  harl  confidence  in  his  character,  and  he  would  i:>ot 
take  a  denial.  So  Hugh  Miller  was  sent  to  Edinburgh  to  learn  his 
nev/  lousiness  at  the  head  bank. 

Throughout  life  Miller  seems  to  have  invariably  put  his  con- 
science into  his  wovk.  Speaking  of  the  old  man  with  whom  he 
served  his  apprenticeship  as  a  mason,  he  savs  :  **/Je  made  conscience 
if  every  stor.e  fie  laid.  It  was  remarked  in  the  place,  that  the  walls 
built  by  Uncle  David  never  bulged  nor  fell ;  and  no  aj)prentice  nor 
journeyman  of  his,  was  permitted,  under  any  plea,  to  make  'slight 
work.'"  And  one  of  his  own  Uncle  James's  instruction  to  him  on 
one  occasion  was,  ''In  all  your  dealings,  give  your  neighbor  the 
cast  of  ike  bauk, — 'good  measure,  heaped  up  and  running  over,*— 
and  you  will  not  lose  by  it  in  the  end."  These  lessons  were  worth 
far  more  than  what  is  often  taught  in  schools,  and  Hugh  Miller 
seems  to  have  framed  his  own  conduct  in  life  on  the  excellent 
moral  teaching  which  they  conveyed.  Speaking  of  his  own  career 
as  a  workman,  when  on  the  eve  of  quitting  it,  he  says  :  *'I  do  think 
I  acted  up  to  my  uncle's  maxim  ;  and  that,  without  injuring  my 
brother  workmen  by  lowering  their  prices.  I  never  yet  charged  an 
employer  for  a  piece  of  work  that,  fairly  measured  and  valued, 
would  not  be  rated  at  a  slightly  higher  sum  than  that  at  which  it 
stood  in  my  account." 

Although  he  gained  some  fame  in  his  locality  by  his  poems,  and 
still  more  by  his  "Letters  on  the  Herring  Fisheries  of  Scotland,** 
he  was  not,  as  many  self-raised  men  are,  spoiled  by  the  praise  which 
his  works  called  forth.  "There  is,'*  he  says,  "  no  more  fatal  error 
into  which  a  working-man  of  a  literary  turn  can  fall,  than  the  mis- 
take of  deeming  himself  too  good  for  his  humble  employments  ; 
and  yet  it  is  a  mistake  as  common  as  it  is  fatal.  I  had  already  seen 
several  poor  wrecked  mechanics,  who,  believing  themselves  to  be 
poets,  and  regarding  the  manual  occupation  by  which  they  could 
alone  live  in  independence  as  beneath  them,  had  become  in  conse- 
quence little  better  than  mendicants, — too  good  to  work  for  their 
bread,  but  not  too  good  virtually  to  beg  it ;  and  looking  upon  them 
as  beacons  of  warning,  I  determined  that,  with  God's  help,  I  should 
give  their  error  a  wide  offing,  and  never  associate  the  idea  of  mean- 
ness with  an  honest  calling,  or  deem  myself  too  good  to  be  indepen- 
dent." Full  of  this  manly  and  robust  spirit,  Hugh  Miller  pursued 
his  career  of  stone-hewing  by  day,  and  prose  composition  when  the 
day's  work  was  done,  until  he  entered  upon  his  new  vocation  ot 
banker's  accountant.  He  showed  his  self-denial,  too,  in  waiting  for 
a  wife  until  ho  could  afford  to  keep  one  in  respectable  comfort, — 


72  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

his  engagement  lasting  over  five  years,  before  he  was  in  a  position 
to  fulfill  his  promise.     And  then  he  married,  wisely  and  happily. 

At  Edinburgh,  by  dint  of  perseverance  and  application,  Mr.  Miller 
shortly  mastered  his  new  business,  and  thtn  returned  to  Cromarty, 
where  he  was  installed  in  office.  His  "Scenes  and  Legends  of  the 
North  of  Scotland"  were  published  about  the  same  time,  and  were 
well  received  ;  and  in  his  leisure  hours  ha  proceeded  to  prepare  his 
most  important  work,  on  **The  Old  Rjd  Sandstone."  He  also  con- 
tributed to  the  "Border  Tales,"  and  other  periodicals.  The  Free- 
Church  movement  drew  him  out  as  a  polemical  writer :  and  his 
Letter  t)  Lord  Brougham  on  the  Scotch  Church  Controversy  excited 
BO  much  attention,  tliat  the  leaders  of  the  movement  in  Edinburgh 
invited  him  to  undertake  the  editing  of  the  Witness  newspaper,  the 
organ  of  the  Free-Church  party.  He  accepted  the  invitation,  and 
continued  to  hold  the  editorship  until  his  death,  in  1856. 

The  circumstances  connected  with  his  decease  were  of  a  most 
distressing  character.  On  entering  his  room  one  morning,  he  was 
found  lying  dead,  shot  through  the  body,  and  under  circumstances 
which  left  no  doubt  that  he  had  died  by  his  own  hand.  He  had  for 
some  time  been  closely  applying  himself  to  the  completion  of  his 
"  Testimony  of  the  Rocks,"  without  rest  or  relaxation,  or  due  atten- 
tion to  his  physical  health.  Under  these  circumstances,  overwork 
oi  the  br:iin  speedily  began  to  tell  upon  him.  He  could  not  sleep, 
— if  he  lay  down  and  dozed,  it  was  only  to  wake  in  a  start,  his  head 
filled  with  imaginary  horrors;  and  in  one  of  these  fits  of  his  disease 
he  put  an  end  to  his  life; — a  warning  to  all  brain-workers,  that  the 
powers  of  the  human  constitution  may  be  strained  until  they  break, 
and  that  even  the  best  and  strongest  mind  cannot  dispense  with  the 
due  observance  of  the  laws  which  regulate  the  physical  constitution 
of  man. 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY.    * 


SOME  thirty  years  since,  we  happened  to  visit  the  High  Courts 
of  Ssssion,  held  in  Edinburgh,  in  the  purlieus  of  the  old  Scotch 
Parliament-House.  These  are  the  chief  law  courts  of  Scotland ; 
and  though  they  are  always  objects  of  interest  to  a  visitor,  they  were 
perhaps  more  so  at  that  time  than  they  are  now,  in  consequence  of 
their  being  then  professionally  frequented  by  several  men  of  world- 
wide reputation. 

We  remember  well  the  striking  entrance  to  those  courts;  they 
occupy  one  side  of  a  square,  opposite  to  the  old  cathedral  church  of 
St.  Giles's,  where  Jenny  Geddes  initiated  the  great  Rebellion  of  two 
centuries  back,  by  hurling  her  "cutty-stool"  at  the  head  of  the 
officiating  bishop,  on  his  proposing  to  read  the  collect  for  the  day. 
•*Diel  colic  the  wame  o*  thee!"  shouted  Jenny,  as  she  hurled  her 
stool  at  the  bishop;  and  from  that  point  the  Revolution  began.  John 
Knox,  at  an  earlier  period,  used  to  deliver  his  thrilling  harangues 
in  the  same  church;  and  in  the  space  now  forming  the  square — 
which  was  used  as  a  cemetery  previous  to  the  Reformation— the 
mortal  remains  of  that  undaunted  reformer  were  laid;  of  whom  the 
Regent  Murray  said,  as  he  was  lowered  into  his  grave,  "There  lies 
one  who  never  feared  the  face  of  man."  Another  portion  of  the  square 
was  formerly  occupied  by  the  old  jail  or  Tolbooth  of  Edinburgh, 
celebrated  throughout  the  world  by  Scott's  novel  of  "The  Heart  of 
Mid-Lothian."  *  But  it  had  been  demolished  some  years  before  the 
period  of  our  visit. 

Entering  the  courts  by  a  door  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the 
square,  and  crossing  a  spacious  vestibule,  we  passed  through  a  pair 
of  folding  doors,  and  found  ourselves  in  the  famous  Tarliament- 


*  A  popular  orator  from  the  Soutti  once  greatly  disturbed  the  complacency 
of  an  Edlnburffh  audience,  by  addrefesinfi:  them  as  **  Men  of  the  Heart  of  M.ld- 
Lothlaa'M 


74  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES 

House.  It  is  a  noble  hall,  upwards  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
long,  and  about  fifty  wide.  Its  lofty  roof  is  oak,  arched  with  gilt 
pendants,  in  the  style  of  Westminster  Hall.  This  was  the  place  in 
which  the  Scottish  Parliament  held  its  sittings  for  about  seventy 
years  previous  to  the  Union.  It  was  in  a  bustle,  as  it  usually  is 
during  the  sittings  of  the  court,  with  advocates  promenading  in 
their  wigs  and  gowns;  writers  {Anglice,  solicitors),  with  their  blue 
and  red  bags  crammed  with  bundles  of  legal  documents,  scudding 
hither  and  thither;  litigants,  with  anxious  countenances,  collected 
in  groups,  anxiously  discussing  the  progress  of  their  "case;"  whilst 
above  the  din  and  hum  which  tilled  the  hall  there  occasionally  rose 
the  loud  voice  of  the  criers,  summoning  the  counsel  in  the  different 
causes  to  appear  before  their  lordships. 

All  the  courts  open  into  this  hall,  and  we  entered  one  of  these;  we 
think  it  was  the  Justiciary  Court.  Wd  have  no  recollection  of  the 
cause  that  was  being  tried ;  some  petty  horse-warranty  affair  or  other, 
about  which  a  great  deal  of  clever  sarcasm  and  eloquence  was  dis- 
played. But  though  we  have  forgotten  the  cause  that  was  tried,  we 
have  not  forgotten  the  pleader.  He  rose  immediately  after  his  burly 
opponent  had  seated  himself, — Patrick  Robertson,  for  a  long  time 
the  wit  of  the  Parliament-House, — the  author  of  a  book  of  poems, 
jDublished  a  few  years  ago,  full  of  gravity,  but  without  poetry, — 
afterwards  Lord  Robertson.  The  advocate  who  rose  to  reply  was  a 
man  the  very  opposite  in  feature,  form,  and  temperament  to  Patrick 
Robertson.  A  little,  slender,  dark-eyed  man,  of  a  highly  intellectual 
appearance;  his  head  was  small,  — indeed,  the  opponents  of  phre- 
nology have  asserted  that  his  head  was  so  small,  that  it  was  enough 
of  itself  to  overthrow  that  science, — but  then  it  was  exquisitely 
formed,  the  organs  were  beautifully  balanced,  the  bulk  of  the  brain 
lay  over  the  forehead,  and  the  outline  was  such  as  to  give  one  the 
impression  of  the  finest  possible  organization.  He  wore  no  wig; 
and  his  black  hair  was  brushed  straight  up  from  his  beautiful  fore- 
head. 

When  he  rose  to  his  feet,  the  hum  of  the  court  was  stilled  into 
silence  ;  and  one  who  accompanied  us  said,  ••  I'ou  see  that  little  man 
there  going  to  speak  ?  "  **  Yes."  •♦  That's  Feancis  Jeffrey,  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review."  And  Jeffrey  went  on  with  his  speech  in  a 
high-keyed,  sharp,  clear,  and  acute  strain,  not  rising  into  eloquence, 
but  running  on  in  a  smart  and  copious,  yet  somewhat  precise,  man- 
ner :  indeed,  one  might  have  denominated  his  style  of  speech  and 
of  arpjument  as  a  little  finical;  yet  it  was  unusually  complete  and 
highly  finished,  like  everything  else  that  he  did. 

But  there  was  in  the  same  court  that  day  one  whose  reputation 
and  whose  genius  infinitely  tninscended  Jeffrey's,  great  though 
these  may  have  been.  Sitting  immediately  under  the  Lord  Presi- 
dent, at  the  clerk's  table,  were  two  men,  one  on  each  side, — the 
clerks  of  the  Court  ©f  Session.     ''You  see  that  man  at  the  table 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  75 

there,—- the  one  with  the  white  hair  and  the  overhanging  brow?, , 
**Yes,  I  see  two;  they  have  both  white  hair,  and  are  both  heavy- 
browed.  "  * '  Yes  ;  but  I  mean  the  one  to  the  Lord  President's  right, — 
immediately  before  Patrick  Robertson  there."  "The  one  with  his 
head  stooping  over  his  papers,  writing?"  "Yes:  see,  he  is  now 
rising  up,  and  going  across  the  room."  **  I  see  him, — surely  I  know 
that  face  ;  I  must  have  seen  the  man  before."  "You  may  have  seen 
the  portrait  of  him  often  enough,— it  is  Sir  Walter  Scott  ! "  In  a 
moment  we  recognized  the  Great  Wizard  of  the  North,  whose  magi- 
cal pen  had  quickened  into  life  the  long  dead  and  buried  past,  and 
created  shapes  of  magical  beauty  by  the  aid  of  his  wonderful 
fancy, — the  greatest  literary  celebrity  of  the  age  !  His  face,  as  we 
saw  it  then,  presented  but  few  indications  of  those  remarkable  intel- 
lectual powers,  which  might  almost  be  said  to  blaze  in  the  features 
of  Jeffrey.  It  was  heavy,  solid,  lourd,  and  homely, — somewhat  like 
the  face  of  a  country-br.ed  farmer's  man,  grown  old  in  harness,  and 
rather  "  back  "  with  his  rent.  He  limped  across  the  court  to  one  of 
the  advocates  or  writers  to  the  signet,  to  whom  he  delivered  a  paper, 
and  then  returned  to  his  seat.  The  terrible  crash  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  fortunes  had  occurred,  through  the  failure  of  his  publisher, 
but  a  few  years  before  ;  and  here  was  the  hard-working  man,  still 
toiling  at  his  post  of  clerk  of  court  during  the  day, — to  enter  upon 
his  laborious  literary  labors  on  returning  home, — all  with  the  view 
of  desperately  retrieving  the  loss  of  his  fortune  nnd  estate. 

One  other  man  we  may  mention, — then  a  comparatively  young 
advocate  in  good  business.  His  eye,  of  all  his  features,  struck  us 
the  most.  Never  did  we  see  a  more  beautiful,  piercing  eye  before. 
Keen,  black,  and  penetrating,  it  seemed  to  look  through  you.  Once 
afterwards,  we  encountered  the  eye  in  Princes'  Street,  and  recog- 
nized the  man  on  the  instant.  It  was  Henry  Cockburn,  the  author 
of  the  "Life  of  Jeffrey."  He  had  the  look  of  a  man  of  genius  ;  and 
was  long  afterwards  known  as  a  highly  acute  and  able  lawyer.  But 
he  had  never  before  done  anything  in  literature  that  we  know  of, 
until  he  wrote  the  life  of  his  friend  Jeffrey  ;  yet  we  mistake  much  if 
it  do  not  take  its  place  among  the  best  standard  biographies  of  our 
time.  We  should  not  be  surprised  if,  like  Boswell's  Johnson,  it 
were  read  when  the  books  of  the  author  whose  life  is  commemorated 
are  allowed  to  lie  on  the  shelf. 

Not  that  there  is  any  vivid  interest  in  Jeffrey's  life  ;  happy  and 
prosperous  people  have  usually  little  history.  Life  flows  on  in  a 
smooth  current;  everything  succeeds  with  them  ;  they  gather  wealth 
and  fame  with  years,  and  die  full  of  honors,  which  are  recorded  on 
a  mausoleum.  But  certainly  there  was  about  the  life  of  Jeffrey — 
even  independently  of  the  literary  merits  of  Lord  Cockburn's  j^or- 
traiture  of  him,  much  that  is  instructive,  interesting,  and  delightful. 

Jeffrey  was  a  man  full  of  bonhomie.  He  was  an  honest  minded, 
independent  man  ;  a  most  industrious,  hard-working,  and  persever- 


76  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

nnt  man  ;  and,  withal,  a  genuinely  lovinnr  man.  But  above  all,  he 
was  the  founder  of  the  "Edinburgh  Review."  This  was  the  great 
event  of  his  life.  By  means  of  that  eminently  able  organ  of  opinion, 
he  elevated  criticism  into  a  magistrature.  He  invested  it  with  dig- 
nity, and  administered  it  liice  a  judge,  according  to  certain  laws. 
He  became  an  oracle  of  taste  in  poetry,  literature,  and  art.  He  did 
not  merely  follow  the  literary  fashion  of  the  day,  but  he  directed  it, 
and  for  many  years  presided  over  the  highest  critical  organ  in  the 
country.  Yet  it  will  be  confessed,  that,  if  we  look  into  the  collected 
edition  of  his  works,  they  have  comparatively  little  interest  for  us. 
Even  the  most  effective  criticism  is  necessarily  of  an  ephemeral  char- 
acter. Like  a  thrilling  Parliamentary  speech,  its  chief  interest  con- 
sists in  its  appropriateness  to  the  time,  the  circumstances,  and  the 
audience  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  At  best,  literary  criticism  is  but 
a  clever  and  discriminating  judgment  upon  books.  The  books  so 
criticised  are  now  either  dead  and  forgotten,  or  they  have  secured  a 
footing,  and  live  on  independent  of  all  criticism.  Yet  criticism  is 
not  without  its  value,  as  Jeffrey  and  his  fellow  laborers  amply  proved. 

The  leading  incidents  of  Francis  Jeffrey's  life  are  soon  told.  He 
was  born  in  Charles  street,  George's  square,  in  the  old  town  of 
Edinburgh,  on  the  22d  of  October,  1773.  His  father  was  a  depute 
clerk,  in  the  Court  of  Session.  His  mother  was  an  amiable,  intelli- 
gent woman,  who  died  when  Francis  was  but  a  boy.  The  youth 
was  educated  at  the  Edinburgh  High  School,  where  he  remained  for 
six  years.     Here  is  an  incident  of  his  boyhood  : — 

"  One  day  in  the  winter  of  1786-87,  he  was  standing  in  the  high 
street,  staring  at  a  man  whose  appearance  struck  him  ;  a  person 
standing  at  a  shop  door  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  *Ay, 
laddie!  ye  may  weel  look  at  that  man!  that's  Robebt  Burns.'  He 
never  saw  Burns  again. 

From  Edinburgh  High  School,  Jeffrey  proceeded  to  Glasgow  Uni- 
versity where  he  studied  with  distinction  during  two  sessions.  In 
the  Historical  and  Critical  Club,  he  astonished  the  members  by 
the  force  and  acuteness  of  his  rriiicisws  on  the  essays  submitted  for 
discussion.  Thus  early  did  the  peculiar  bent  of  his  mind  display 
itself.  He  worked  very  hard, — was  a  systematic  student, — took  copi- 
ous notes,  cast  into  his  own  forms  of  expression,  of  all  the  lectures, — 
and  read  largely  on  all  subjects.  He  returned  to  Edinburgh,  and 
attended  the  law  classes  there  in  the  |  two  sessions  of  1789-91,  still 
studying  and  composing  essays  on  various  subjects,  but  chiefly  on 
life  and  its  philosophy. 

"It  w\is  about  this  time  (1790  or  1791)  that  he  had  the  honor  of 
assisting  to  carry  the  biographer  of  Johnson,  in  a  state  of  great  intox- 
ication, to  bed.  For  this  he  was  rewarded  next  morning  by  Mr.  Bos- 
well,  who  had  learned  who  his  bearers  had  been,  clapping  his  head, 
and  telling  him  that  he  was  a  very  promising  lad,  and  that,  'If  you 
go  on  as  you've  begun,  yon  may  live  to  be  a  Bozzy  yourself  yet." 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  T7 

He  next  went  to  Oxford  to  study,  and  remained  there  for  a  season, 
but  he  never  entered  fully  into  the  life  of  the  place,  and  evidently 
detested  it.  He  did  not  find  a  single  genial  companion.  He  says 
of  the  meetings  of  the  students,  **  O  these  l>lank  parties  ! — the  quint- 
essence of  insipidity, — the  conversation  dying  from  lip  to  lip, — every 
countenance  lengthening  and  obscuring  in  the  shade  of  mutual 
lassitude, — the  stifled  yawn  contending  with  the  affected  smile  on 
every  cheek, — and  the  languor  and  stupidity  of  the  party  gathering 
and  thickening  every  instant,  by  the  mutual  contagion  of  embar- 
rassment and  disgust In  the  name  of  heaven,  what  do  such  be- 
ings conceive  to  be  the  order  and  use  of  societ}^  ?  To  them,  it  is  no 
source  of  enjoyment ;  and  there  cannot  be  a  more  complete  abuse 
of  time,  mind,  and  fruit."  He  detests  the  law,  too.  "This  law," 
he  says,  "is  vile  work.  I  wish  I  hadj)een  born  a  piper."  There 
was  only  one  thing  that  he  hoped  to  learn  at  Oxford,  and  that  was  the 
English  pronunciation.  And  he  certainly  succeeded  in  acquiring 
it  after  a  sort,  but  he  never  spoke  it  as  an  Englishman  is  wont  to  do. 
As  Lord  Holland  said  of  him  afterwards,.  **he  lost  the  broad  Scotch 
at  Oxford,  but  he  gained  only  the  narrow  Eivjllsh  in  its  place. 

He  returned  to  Edinburgh  in  July,  1792,  and  again  attended  the 
law  lectures  there.  He  joined  the  Speculative  Society,  then  num- 
bering among  its  active  members  many  afterwards  highly  celebrated 
men, — Scott,  Brougham,  Grant  (afterwards  Lord  Glenelg),  Petty 
(afterwards  Marquis  of  Lansdowne),  Francis  Horner,  and  others. 
Jeffrey  distinguished  himself  by  several  admirable  papers  which  he 
read  before  the  society ;  and  also  by  the  part  which  he  took  in  the  dis- 
cussions. But,  like  many  susceptible  young  minds,  at  this  time, 
he  was  haunted  by  fits  of  despondency.  He  could  not  take  the 
world  by  storm  :  few  knew  that  he  lived.  How  was  he  to  distin- 
guish himself?  He  would  be  (X  PoeL'  Writing  to  his  sister  about 
this  time,  he  said,  ^*Iieel  I  shall  never  be  a  great  man,  unless  it  be  as  a 
Poet!  "  But  afterwards  he  says  more  calmly,  *'My  poetry  does  not 
improve  ;  I  think  it  is  growing  worse  every  week.  If  I  could  find  the 
heart  to  abandon  it,  I  believe  I  should  be  the  better  for  it."  He 
nevertheless  went  on  writing  tragedies,  love  poems,  sonnets,  odes, 
and  such  like  ;  but  they  never  saw  the  light.  Once,  indeed,  he 
went  so  far  as  to  leave  a  poem  with  a  bookseller,  to  be  published, — 
and  fled  to  the  country  ;  but  finding  some  obstacle  had  occurred, 
he  returned,  recovered  the  manuscript, — rejoicing  that  he  had  been 
saved, — and  never  repeated  so  perilous  an  experiment. 

In  1794,  Jeffrey  was  called  to  the  Scotch  bar.  The  times  were  sick 
and  out  of  joint.  The  French  Revolution  was  afoot,  and  its  violence 
tended  to  drive  some  men  sternly  back  upon  the  past,  and  to 
impel  others  wildly  forward  into  the  future.  Some  took  a  middlo 
course  ;  and,  while  they  discountenanced  all  violent  change,  sought 
after  constitutional  progress  and  social  improvement.  To  this  mid- 
dle party,  Jeffrey  early  attached  himself.     He  joined  himself  to  the 


78  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Whigs,  thongh  to  do  so  at  that  day  was  t<>  erect  a  lofty  barrier  in 
the  way  of  his  own  success.  Yet  he  did  so,  courageously  and  reso- 
lutely ;  and  he  held  to  his  course.  He  had  several  noble  allies  ; 
among  whom  may  be  named  Brougham,  Homer,  and  Erksine  (the 
brother  of  the  Lord  Chancellor).  At  the  bar,  Jeffrey  got  on  very 
slowly.  Very  few  fees  came  in,  and  these  were  chiefly  from  his 
father's  connections.  He  began  to  despair  o^  success,  and  even 
went  to  London  with  the  object  of  becoming  a  literary  **  grub."  He 
was  furnished  with  letters  to  authors,  newspaper  editors,  and  pub- 
lishers. But,  fortunately,  they  received  him  coldly,  and  he  returned 
to  Edinburgh  to  reoccupy  himself  with  essay  writing,  translating 
from  the  Greek,  and  waiting  for  clients.  The  clients  did  not  come 
yet,  and  he  began  seriously  to  despair  of  ever  achieving  success  in 
Lis  profession. 

*'I  cannot  help,"  he  wrote  at  this  time,  "looking  upon  a  slow, 
obscure,  and  philosophical  starvation  at  the  Scotch  bar,  as  a  destiny 
not  to  be  submitted  to.  There  are  some  moments  when  I  think  I 
could  sell  myself  to  the  minister  or  to  the  devil,  in  order  to- get 
above  these  necessities."  He  also  entertained  the  idea  of  tryiufi 
the  English  bar,  or  going  out  to  India,  like  so  many  other  yomg 
Scotchmen  of  his  day.  .  He  had  now  been  five  years  at  the  bar,  and 
could  not  yet,  as  the  country  saying  goes,  '*  make  saut  to  his  kail." 
In  the  seventh  year  of  his  practice,  he  says,  "My  profession  has 
never  yet  brought  me  £100  a  year."  But  this  is  the  history  of  nearly 
all  young  men  in  their  first  ascent  of  the  steeps  of  professional 
enterprise. 

Yet  Jeffrey's  poor  prospects  did  not  prevent  him  falling  in  love 
with  a  girl  as  poor  as  himself,  and  he  married  her.  The  young  lady 
was,  however,  of  good  family:  she  was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Nelson, 
Professor  of  Church  History  at  St.  Andrew's.  The  young  pair  set- 
tled down  in  Baccleuch  Place,  in  the  Old  Town;  and  thebiograp)ier 
informs  us  that  "his  own  study  was  only  made  comfortable  at  the 
cost  of  £7  185. ;  the  banqueting-hall  rose  to  £13  8.9. ;  and  the  draw- 
ing-room actually  rose  to  £22  195."  He  made  a  careful  inventory 
of  all  the  costs  of  furnishing,  which  is  still  preserved. 

But  his  marriage  seemed  to  have  been  the  starting-point  of  Jef- 
frey's  success.  He  devoted  himself  sedulously  to  his  profession. 
Clients  appeared  in  greater  numbers;  he  began  to  be  looked  upon 
as  a  rising  man;  and  when  once  the  ball  is  fairly  set  a-roUing,  it 
goes  on  comparatively  easy.  Shortly  after,  the  famous  Edinburgh 
Review  was  projected  by  himself  and  Sydney  Smith,  though  the 
merit  of  suggesting  the  work  is  undoubtedly  due  to  the  latter.  Syd- 
ney Smith's  account  of  its  origin  is  this:  "One  day  we  happened 
to  meet  in  the  eighth  or  ninth  story,  or  flat,  in  Buccleuch  Place,  the 
elevated  residence  of  the  then  Mr.  Jeffrey.  I  proposed  that  we 
should  set  up  a  review;  this  was  acceded  to  with  acclamation.  I 
was  appointed  editor,  and  remained  long  enough  in  Edinburgh  to 


^^i 


FUANCIS  JEFFBEY. 


it  the  first  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review."  But  Jeffrey's  apt- 
ness for  editorial  work,  his  peculiar  critical  ability,  together  with  the 
fact  of  his  being  the  only  settled  man  of  the  lot  permanently  located* 
in  Edinburgh,  soon  led  to  his  undertaking  the  entire  control  of  the 
lleview,  and  furnishing  the  principal  part  of  the  writing. 

The  first  number  of  the  Edinburgh  lieview  appeared  in  October, 
1802.  and  the  eliect  produced  by  it  was  almost  electrical.  It  was  so 
bold,  SQ  novel,  so  spirited  and  able,  -so  unlike  anything  of  the  kind 
that  had  heretofore  appeared, — that  its  success  from  the  first  was 
decided.  It  afforded  a  gratifying  proof  of  the  existence  of  liberal 
feeling  in  a  part  of  the  country  where  before  one  dull,  dead  uniform 
level  of  slavish  obsequiency  had  prevailed.  It  gave  a  voice  to  the 
dormant  feeling  of  independence  w^hioh  nevertheless  slill  survived. 
The  effect  upon  public  opinion  was  most  wholesome,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Reviev  went  on  increasing  from  year  to  year.  Horner, 
Sydney  Smith,  and  Brougham  soon  left  Edinburgh  for  England,  to 
enter  upon  public  life;  but  Jeffrey  stood  by  the  Review,  and  con- 
tinued ils  main-stay.  When  Horner  left  Edinburgh,  he  made  a 
present  of  his  bar  wig  to  Jefirey,  who  "hoped  that  in  time  it  would 
attract  fees  "  besides  admiration.  But  Jeffrej^  never  liked  to  wear  a 
wig,  and"  soon  abandoned  it  for  his  own  fine  black  hair.  Among  the 
greatest  bores  which  he  experienced  wa*!  attending  Scotch  appeals  in 
the  House  of  Lorda  in  London,  when  he  had  to  sit  under  a  great  load 
of  serge  and  horsehair,  perhaps  in  the  very  height  of  the  dog-days! 

His  practice  increased,  while  his  fama  in  connection  with  the 
Review  spread  his  name  abroad.  His  severe  handling  of  many  of 
the  writers  of  the  day,  brought  down  upon  him  a  good  deal  of  bitter 
speech, — such  as  Lord  Byron's  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Review- 
ers." His  severe  review  of  Moore's  lascivious  love  poems  brought 
him  into  collision  with  that  gentleman,  and  an  innocuous  duel  was* 
the  consequence ;  but  after  that  they  remained  warm  friends.  There 
was  little  of  interest  in  Jeifrey's  life  for  many  years  after  this  occur- 
rence. It  flowed  on  in  an  equable  and  widenin:^  current  of  steady 
prosperity.  His  wife  died  in  1805,  and  was  sincerely  lamented  by 
him.  The  letter  which  he  wrote  to  his  brother  on  the  occasion  is 
exceedingly  beautiful,— full  of  affectionate  and  deep  feeling  for  the 
departed.  " I  took  no  interest,"  he  says,  "in  anything  which  had 
not  some  reference  to  her.  I  had  no  enjoyment  away  from  her, 
except  in  thinking  what  I  should  have  to  tell  or  to  show  her  on 
my  return;  and  I  have  never  returned  to  her,  after  half  a  day's 
absence,  without  feeling  my  hea  t  throb  and  my  eye  brighten  with 
all  the  ardor  and  anxiety  of  a  youthful  passion.  All  the  exertions  I 
ever  made  in  the  world  were  for  her  sake  entirely.  You  know  how 
indolent  I  was  by  nature,  and  how  regardless  of  reputation  and 
fortune;  but  it  was  a  delight  to  me  to  lay  these  things  at  the  feet  of 
my  darling,  and  to  invest  her  with  some  portion  of  the  distinction 
she  deserved,  and  to  increase  the  pride  and  yanity  she  felt  for  hex 


W  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

husband,  by  accunmlating  these  public  tests  of  his  merit.  She  had 
80  lively  a  relish  for  life,  too,  and  bo  unquenchable  and  unbroken  a 
liope  in  the  midst  of  protracted  illness  and  languor,  that  the  stroke 
which  cut  it  off  forever  appears  equally  cruel  and  unnatural. 
Though  familiar  with  sickness,  she  seemed  to  h.ive  nothing  to  do 
with  death.  She  always  recovered  so  rapidly,  and  was  so  cheerful 
and  affectionate  and  playful,  that  it  scarcely  entered  into  my 
imagination  that  there  could  be  one  sickness  from  which  she  would 
not  recover."  But  Jeffrey  did  not  remain  single.  A  few  years  after, 
in  1813,  we  fincl  him  on  his  way  to  the  United  States,  to  bring  home 
his  second  wife, — a  grand-niece  of  the  famous  John  Wilkes.  He 
wooed  and  won  her,  and  an  admirable  wife  she  made  him. 

There  are  only  a  few  other  prominent  landmarks  in  Jeffrey's 
career,  which  we  would  note  in  the  midst  of  his  prosperous  life.  In 
1820  he  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasf^ow,  and 
delivered  a  noble  speech  on  his  installation.  In  1829  he  was  elected 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  a  post  of  high  honor  in  the  pro- 
fession. On  being  eh^cted,  he  gave  up  the  editorship  of  the  Review, 
after  superintending  it  for  a  period  of  twenty-seven  years.  In  1830 
the  Whigs  came  into  office,  and  Jeffrey  was  appointed  Lord  Advo- 
cate,— the  first  law  officer  of  the  Crown  for  Scotland.  This  w;t3  the 
height  of  hits  ambition.  He  could  only  climb  a  step  higher,  which 
he  did  a  few  years  later,  when  he  was  made  a  judge,  and  died  Lord 
Jeffrey,  in  Januar3%  1850. 

His  friend  and  fellow-judge  has  admirably  depicted  Jeffrey  as  he 
lived, — in  his  homo  life,  which  was  beautiful,  and  in  his  public 
career,  which  was  honorable,  useful,  an<l  meritorious.  He  was  a 
most  affectionate  man.  In  one  of  his  letters,— and  they  are,  per- 
haps, the  most  charming  portions  of  the  work, — he  says,  ''Iain 
every  hour  more  convinced  of  the  error  of  those  who  look  lor  happi- 
ness in  anything  but  concentered  and  tranquil  affection."  His  in- 
tellect was  sharp  and  bright, — not  so  powerful  as  keen.  His 
knowledge  was  various  rather  than  profound.  His  taste  was  exquis- 
ite ;  his  sense  of  honor  very  fine  ;  and  his  manner  was  full  of  gen- 
tleness and  kindness.  Withal,  he  was  an  earnest,  resolute  man, 
whose  heart  glowed  in  the  conflicts  of  the  world.  In  conclusion  we 
may  add,  that  Lord  Jeffrey,  in  his  valuable  life,  has  furnished  a  fur- 
ther illustration  of  what  honorable,  persistent  industry  and  appli- 
cation will  do  for  a  man  in  this  life  ;  for  it  was  mainly  this  that 
raised  him  from  obscurity  and  dependence  to  a  position  of  afflu- 
ence and  worldly  renown. 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT,  the  Sheffield  iron-merchant,  a  poet  of 
no  mean  fame,  was  extensively  known  beyond  the  bounds  of 
his  own  locality  as  '*  the  Corn-Law  Rhymer."  Though  for  a 
time  identified  with  a  political  movement,  to  which  he  consecrated 
the  service  of  his  lyre,  he  had  nevertheless  the  world-wide  vision  of 
the  true  poet,  who  is  of  no  sect  nor  party.  Any  one  who  reads  his 
poems  will  not  fail  to  note  how  closely  his  soul  was  knit  to  univer- 
sal nature — how  his  pulse  beat  in  unison  with  her, — how  deeply  he 
read  and  how  truly  he  interpreted  her  meanings.  With  a  heart 
glowing  for  love  of  his  kind,  out  of  which  indeed  his  poetry  first 
sprung,  and  with  a  passionate  sense  of  wrongs  inflicted  upon  the 
suffering  poor,  which  burst  out  in  words  of  electric,  almost  tremen- 
dous power,  there  was  combined  a  tenderness  and  purity  of  thought 
and  feeling,  and  a  love  for  Nature  in  all  her  moods,  of  the  most  re- 
fined and  beautiful  character.  In  his  scathing  denunciations  of 
power  misused,  how  terrible  he  is  ;  but  in  his  expression  of  beauty, 
how  sweet!  Bitter  and  fierce  though  his  rhymes  are  when  his  sub- 
ject is  "the  dirt-kings, — the  tax-gorged  lords  of  land,'*  we  see  that 
all  his  angry  spirit  is  disarmed  when  he  takes  himself  out  to  breathe 
the  fresh  breath  of  the  heavens,  in  the  green  lane,  on  the  open 
heath,  or  up  among  the  wild  mountains.  There  he  takes  Nature  to 
his  bosom, — calls  her  by  the  sweetest  of  names,  pours  his  soul  out 
before  her,  gives  her  his  whole  heart,  and  yields  up  to  her  his  manly 
adoration.  You  see  this  beautiful  side  of  the  poet's  character  in  his 
exquisite  poems  entitled  "  The  Wonders  of  the  Lane,"  *'  Come  and 
Gone,"  *' The  Excursion,"  "The  Dying  Boy  to  the  Sloe  Blossom," 
"Flowers  for  the  Heart,"  "Don  and  Rother,"  and  even  in  "Win- 
hill,"  that  most  powerful  of  his  odes.  The  utterance  is  that  of  a 
man,  but  the  heart  is  tender  as  that  of  a  woman.  These  exquisite 
little  poems  of  Elliott,  in  their  terseness  and  vividness  of  expres- 
sion, and  their  sweetness  and  delicacy  of  execution,  cannot  fail  to 
remind  one  of  the  kindred  magical  power  and  genius  of  Robert 
Bums. 

<  «l 


82  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Elliott's  life  proved,  what  is  still  a  disputed  pointy  that  the  cnlti- 
vation  of  poetic  tastes  is  perfectly  compatible  with  success  in  trade 
and  commerce.  It  is  a  favorite  dogma  of  some  men,  that  he  "who 
courts  the  Muses  must  necessarily  be  unfitted  for  the  practical  busi- 
ness of  life  ;  and  that  to  succeed  in  trade,  a  man  must  live  alto- 
gether for  it,  and  never  rise  above  the  consideration  of  its  little 
details.  This  is,  in  our  opinion,  a  notion  at  variance  with  actual 
experience.  Generally  speaking,  you  will  find  the  successful  lite- 
rary man  a  man  of  industry,  application,  steadiness,  and  sobriety. 
He  must  be  a  hard  worker.  He  must  apply  himself.  He  must 
economize  time,  and  coin  it  into  sterling  thought,  if  not  into  ster- 
ling money.  His  habits  tell  upon  his  whole  character,  and  mold  it 
into  consistency.  If  he  be  in  business,  he  must  be  diligent  to  suc- 
ceed in  it ;  and  his  intelligence  gives  him  resources  which  to  the 
ignorant  man  are  denied.  It  may  not  have  been  so  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, when  the  literary  man  was  a  rara  avis,  a  world's  wond(  r,  and 
was  feted  and  lionir.od  until  ho  became  irretrievably  spoiled  ;  but 
now,  when  all  men  have  grown  readers,  and  a  host  of  men  have  be- 
come writers,  the  literary  man  is  no  longer  a  novelty  :  he  drags  qui- 
etly along  in  the  social  team,  engages  in  business,  succeeds,  and 
economizes,  just  as  other  men  do,  and  generally  to  much  better  pur- 
pose than  the  illiterate  and  the  uncultivated.  Some  of  the  most  sue- 
cessfiU  men  in  business,  at  the  present  day,  are  men  who  regularly 
wield  the  pen  in  the  intervals  of  their  daily  occupations,-  some  for 
self-culture,  others  for  pleasure,  others  because  they  have  something 
cheerful  or  instructive  to  utter  to  their  fellow-men  ;  and  shall  we 
gay  that  those  men  are  less  usefully  employed  than  if  they  had  been 
cracking  filberts  over  their  wine,  sleeping  over  a  newspaper,  gadding 
at  clubs,  or  engaging  in  the  frivolity  of  evening  parties? 

Ebenezer  Elliott  was  a  man  who  profitably  applied  his  leisure 
hours  to  the  pursuit  of  literature,  and,  while  he  succeeded  in  busi- 
ness, he  gained  an  eminent  reputation  as  a  poet.  After  a  long  life 
spent  in  business,  working  his  way  up  from  the  position  of  a  labor- 
ing man  to  that  of  an  employer  of  labor,  a  capitalist,  and  a  merchant, 
he  retired  from  active  life,  built  a  house  on  a  little  estate  of  his  own, 
and  sat  under  his  "vine  and  fig-tree  "  during  the  declining  years  of 
his  life;  cheered  by  the  prospect  of  a  large  family  of  virtuous  sons 
and  daughters  growing  up  around  him  in  happiness  and  usefulness. 

We  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  to  this  gifted  man,  at  his  own 
fireside,  little  more  than  a  month  before  his  death.  It  was  one  of  the 
last  lovely  days  of  autumn,  when  the  faint  breath  of  summer  was 
still  lingering  among  the  woods  and  fields,  as  if  loath  to  depart  from 
the  earth  she  had  gladdened;  the  blackbird  was  still  piping  his 
mellifluous  song  in  the  hedges  and  coppice,  whose  foliage  was  tinted 
in  j:>urple,  russet,  and  brown,  with  just  enough  of  green  to  give  that 
perfect  autumnal  tint,  so  beautifully  pictorial,  but  impossible  to, 
paint  in  words.     The  beech-nuts  were  dropping  from  the  tree^,^  ^nd 


r  f^TtLt 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT.  83 


crackled  under  foot,  and  a  rich,  damp  smell  rose  from  the  decaying 
leaves  by  the  road-side.  After  a  short  walk  through  a  lovely,  undu- 
lating country,  from  the  Darfield  station  of  the  North  Midland  Eail- 
wa5%  along  one  of  the  old  Roman  roads,  so  common  in  that  part  of 
Yorkshire,  and  which  leads  into  the  famous  Watling  Street,  near 
the  town  of  Pontefract,  we  reached  the  village  of  Old  Houghton,  at 
the  south  end  of  which  stands  the  curious  Old  Hall, — an  interesting 
relic  of  Middle-Age  antiquity.  Its  fantastic  gable-end,  projecting 
windows,  quaint  doorway,  diamond  "quarrels,"  and  its  great  size 
looming  up  in  the  twilight,  with  the  well-known  repute  which  the 
houHe  bears  of  being  "haunted,"  made  us  regard  it  with  a  strange, 
awe-like  feeling;  it  seemed  like  a  thing  not  of  this  every-day  world; 
indeed,  the  place  breathes  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  olden  time, 
and  a  host  of  associations  connected  with  a  most  interesting  period 
of  old  English  history  are  called  up  by  its  appearance.  It  reminds 
one  of  the  fantastic  old  Tabard,  in  Dickens's  "Barnaby  Euclge"  (we 
think  it  is) ;  and  the  resemblance  is  strengthened  by  the  fact  of  this 
Old  Hall  being  now  converted  into  a  modern  public-house,  the 
inscription  of  "Licensed  to  be  drunk  on  the  premises,"  etc.,  being 
legibly  written  on  a  sign-board  over  the  fantastic  old  porch.  "To 
what  base  uses,"  alas!  do  our  old  country-houses  come  at  last !  Being 
open  to  the  public,  we  entered;  and  there  we  found  a  lot  of  the 
village  laborers,  ploughmen,  and  delvers,  engaged,  in  a  boxed-off 
corner  of  the  Old  Squire's  Hall,  drinking  their  Saturday  night's  quota 
of  beer,  amidst  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke;  while  the  mistress  of  the 
place,  seated  at  the  tap  in  another  corner  of  the  apartment,  was 
dealing  out  her  potations  to  all  comers  and  purchasers.  A  huge 
black  deer's  head  and  antlers  projected  from  the  wall,  near  the  door, 
evidently  part  of  the  antique  furniture  of  the  place;  and  we  had  a 
glimpse  of  a  fine  broad  stone  staircase,  winding  up  in  one  of  the 
deep  bays  of  the  hall,  leading  to  the  state  apartments  above.  Though 
strongly  tempted  to  seek  a  night's  lodging  in  this  haunted  house, 
as  well  as  to  explore  the  mysteries  of  the  interior,  we  resisted  the 
desire,  and  set  forward  on  our  journey  to  the  more  inviting  house 
of  the  poet. 

We  reached  Hargate  Hill,  the  house  and  home  of  Ebenezer  Elliott, 
in  the  dusk  of  the  autumn  evening.  There  was  just  light  enough  to 
enable  us  to  perceive  that  it  was  situated  on  a  pleasant  height,  near 
the  hill-top,  commanding  an  extensive  prospect  of  the  undulating 
and  finely-wooded  country  towards  the  south;  on  the  north  stretched 
away  an  extensive  tract  of  moorland,  covered  with  gorse-bushes.  A 
nicely-kept  flower-garden  and  grass-plot  lay  before  the  door,  with 
some  of  the  last  of  the  year's  roees  still  in  bloom.  We  had  a  cordial 
welcome  from  the  poet,  his  wife,  and  two  interesting  daughters, — 
the  other  members  of  his  large  family  being  settled  in  life  for  them- 
selves,—two  sons,  clergymen,  in  the  West  Indies,  two  in  SheflSeld, 
and  others  elBewhere.    'Elliott  iookod  the  wan  invalid  that  he  wa?. 


84  BRIEF  BIOGRAPmES. 

pale  and  thin;  and  his  hair  was  nearly  white.  Age  had  deeply 
marked  his  features  since  last  we  saw  him;  and,  instead  of  the  iron- 
framed,  firm  voiced  man  we  had  seen  and  heard  in  Palace  Yard, 
London,  some  eleven  j^ears  before,  and  in  his  own  town  of  Sheffield 
at  a  more  recent  date,  he  now  seemed  a  comparatively  wealt  and 
feeble  old  man.  An  anxious  expression  of  face  indicated  that  he 
had  suffered  much  acute  pain, — which  indeed  was  the  case.  After 
he  had  got  rid  of  that  subject,  and  begun  to  converse  about  more 
general  topics,  his  countenance  brightened  up,  and,  under  the  stim- 
ulus of  delightful  converse,  he  became,  as  it  were,  a  new  man.  With 
all  his  physical  weakness,  we  found  that  his  heart  beat  as  warm  and 
true  as  ever  to  the  cause  of  human  kind.  The  old  strugglss  of  his 
life  were  passed  in  review,  and  fought  over  again;  and  he  displayed 
the  same  zeal  and  entertained  the  same  strong  faith  in  the  old  cause 
which  he  had  rhymed  about  so  long  before  it  seized  hold  of  the 
public  mind.  He  mentioned,  what  1  had  not  before  known,  that  the 
8'ieffield  Anti-Corn-Law  Association  was  the  first  to  start  the  system 
of  operations  afterwards  adopted  by  the  League,  and  that  they  first 
employed  Paulton  as  a  publiclecturer;  buttoCobden  he  gave  the 
praise  of  having  poi)ularized  the  cause,  knocked  it  into  the  public 
head  by  dint  of  sheer  hard  work  and  strong  practical  sense,  and  to 
Oobden  he  still  looked  as  the  great  leader  of  the  day,— one  of  the 
most  advanced  and  influential  minds  of  his  time.  The  patriotic 
struggle  in  Hungary  had  enlisted  his  warmest  sympathies;  and  he 
spoke  of  Kossuth  as  "cast  in  the  mold  of  the  greatest  heroes  of 
antiquity."  Of  the  Russian  Emperor  he  spoke  as  *'  that  tremendous 
villain,  Nicholas,"  and  ho  believed  him  to  be  so  infatuated  by  his 
success  in  Hungary,  that  he  would  not  know  where  to  stop,  but 
v/ould  rush  blindly  to  his  ruin. 

The  conversation  then  led  towards  his  occupations  in  this  remote 
country  spot,  whither  he  had  retreated  from  the  busy  throng  of 
men,  and  the  engrossing  }3nrsuits  and  anxieties  of  business.  Here 
he  said  he  had  given  himself  up  to  meditation  aud  thought ;  nor 
liad  he  been  idle  with  his  pen  either,  having  a  volume  of  prose  and 
poetry  nearly  ready  for  publication.  Strange  to  say,  he  spoke 
of  his  prose  as  the  better  part  of  his  writings,  and,  as  he 
himself  thought,  much  superior  to  his  poetry.  But  he  is  not  the 
first  instance  of  a  great  writer  who  has  been  in  error  as  to  the  com- 
parative value  of  his  own  works.  On  that  question  the  world,  and 
especially  posterity,  will  pronounce  the  true  verdict. 

He  spoke  with  great  interest  of  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, which  had  been  a  source  to  him  of  immense  joy  and 
delight ;  of  the  two  great  old  oaks,  near  the  old  Roman  road,  about 
a  mile  to  the  north,  under  the  shad  e  of  which  the  Wapontake  formerly 
assembled,  and  in  the  hollow  of  one  of  which,  in  more  recent  times, 
Nevison  the  highwayman  used  to  take  shelter,  but  it  was  burnt 
down  in  spite,  after  his  execution,  by  a  band  of  gypsies;  of  the 


I 

fflori 


EBENEZEB  ELLIOTT.  85 


-pflorions  wooded  conntry  whicla  stretched  to  the  south, — Wentworth, 
Wharncliffe,  Conisborough,  and  the  line  scenery  of  the  Dearne  and 
the  Don  ;  of  the  many  traditions  which  still  lingered  about  the 
neighborhood,  and  which,  he  said,  some  Walter  Scott,  could  ho 
gather  them  up  before  they  died  away,  would  make  glow  again  with 
life  and  beauty. 

"Did  you  see,"  he  observed,  "that  curious  Old  Hall  on  your  way 
up?  The  terrible  despot  Wentworth,  Lord  Strafford,  married  his 
third  wife  from  that  very  house,  and  afterwards  lived  in  it  for  Rome 
time  ;  and  no  wonder  it  is  rumored  among  the  country  folks  as 
•haunted;*  for  if  it  be  true  that  unquiet,  perpetual  spirits  have 
power  to  wander  over  the  earth,  alter  the  body  to  which  they 
had  been  bound  is  dead,  his  could  never  endure  the  peaceful  rest  of 
the  grave.  After  Wentworth's  death  it  became  the  property  of  Sir 
Yv'iiliam  Rhodes,  a  stout  Presbyterian  and  Parliamentarian.  "When 
the  great  civil  war  broke  out,  Bhodes  took  the  field  with  his  ten- 
antry, on  the  side  of  the  Parliament,  and  the  first  encounter  between 
the  two  parties  is  said  to  have  taken  place  only  a  few  miles  to  the 
north  of  Old  Houghton.  While  Rhodes  was  at  Tadcaster  with  Sir 
Thomas  Fairfax,  Captain  Grey  (an  ancestor  of  the  present  Earl 
Grey),  at  the  head  of  a  body  of  about  three  hundred  Royalist  horse, 
attacked  the  Old  Hall,  and,  there  being  only  some  thirty  servants 
left  to  defend  it,  took  the  place  and  set  fire  to  it,  destroying  all  that 
would  burn.  But  Cromwell  rode  down  the  cavaliers  with  his 
plowmen  at  Marston  Moor,  not  very  far  from  here  either,  and 
then  Rhodes  built  the  little  chapel  that  you  would  still  see  standing 
apart  at  the  west  end  of  the  Hall,  and  established  a  godly  Presby- 
terian divine  to  minister  there  ;  forming  a  road  from  thence  to 
Driffield,  about  three  miles  off,  to  enable  the  inhabitants  of  that 
place  to  reach  it  by  a  short  and  convenient*route.  I  forget  how  it 
happened,"  he  continued,  "I  believe  it  was  by  marriage, — but  so  it 
was  that  the  estate  fell  into  the  possession,  in  these  later  days,  of 
Moncktown  Milnes,  to  whom  it  now  belongs.  But  as  Monk"  Pry- 
stone  was  preferred  as  a  family  residence,  and  was  in  a  more  thriv- 
ing neighborhood,  the  chief  part  of  the  land  about  was  sold  to  other 
proprietors,  and  only  some  three  holdings  were  retained,  in  virtue 
of  which  Mr.  Milnes  continues  lord  of  the  manor,  and  is  entitled  to 
his  third  share  of  the  moor  or  waste  lands  in  the  neighborhood, 
which  may  be  reclaimed  under  Inclosure  Acts.  But  the  Old  Hall 
has  been  dismantled,  and  all  the  fine  old  furniture  and  tapestry  and 
paintings  have  been  removed  down  to  the  new  house  at  Monk 
Fry  stone." 

And  then  the  conversation  turned  upon  Monckton  Milnes,  his 
fine  poetry,  and  his  "Life  of  Keats," — on  Keats,  of  whom  Elliott 
sjDoke  in  terms  of  glowing  eulogy  as  that  great  "  resurectionized 
Greek," — on  Southey,  who  had  so  kind  proffered  his  services  in 
advancing  the  interests  of  Elliott's  two  sons,  the  clergymen,  whose 


86  BRIEF  BIOGBAPHIES. 

livings  he  obtained  for  them, — on  Carlyle,  whom  he  admired  as  ono 
of  the  greatest  of  living  poets,  though  writing  not  in  rhyme,— and 
on  Longfellow,  whose  *'Evangeline''  he  had  not  yet  seen,  but  longed 
to  read.  And  thus'the  evening  stole  on  with  delightful  converse  in 
the  heart  of  that  quiet,  happy  family,  the  listeners  recking  not  that 
the  lips  of  the  eloquent  speaker  would  soon  be  moist  with  the  dews 
of  death.  Shortly  after  the  date  of  this  visit,  we  sent  the  poet  a 
copy  of  "Evangeline,"  of  which  he  observed,  in  a  letter  written 
after  a  delightful  perusal  of  it :  **  Longfellow  is  indeed  a  poet,  and 
he  has  done  what  1  deemed  an  impossibility, — he  has  written 
English  hexameters,  giving  our  mighty  lyre  a  new  string  !  When 
Tennyson  dies,  he  should  read  'Evangeline*  to  Homer."  Poor 
Elliott !    That  task,  if  a  possible  one,  be  now  his  ! 

We  cannot  better  conclude  this  brief  sketch  than  by  giving  the 
last  lines  which  Elliott  wrote,  while  autumn  was  yet  lingering  round 
his  dwelling,  and  the  appearance  of  the  robin  red-breast  near  the 
door  augured  the  approach  of  winter.  They  were  written  at  the 
request  of  the  poet's  daughter  (who  was  married  only  about  a  fort- 
night before  his  death),  to  the  air  of  "'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be 
unmoved  " : — 

Thy  notes,  sweet  Robin,  soft  as  dew, 
Heard  soon  or  lat^e,  are  dear  tx)  me ; 
To  music  I  could  hid  adieu, 
But  not  to  thee. 

.  When  from  my  eyes  this  life-full  throng 
Has  past  away  no  more  to  be ; 
Then,  Autumn's  primrose,  Robin's  song, 
Keturn  to  me. 


GEORGE  BORROW. 


INCE  the  publication  of  "The  Bible  in  Spain,"  a  singularly 
interesting  and  fascinating  book,  few  English  writers  have  ex- 
cited so  deep  a  personal  interest  as  George  Borrow, — Grypsy 
George, — Don  Giorgio, — the  Gypsy  Hogarth.  The  writer  projected 
BO  much  of  himself  into  that  book,  as  well  as  into  his  "Gypsies  of 
Spain,"  his  first  published  work,  and  gave  us  such  delightful 
glim]Dses  of  his  own  life  and  experience,  as  keenly  to  whet  our  curi- 
osity, and  make  us  eagerly  long  to  know  more  about  him. 

Here  was  a  traveling  missionary  of  the  Bible  Society,  who  knew 
all  about  gypsy  life  and  lingo,  was  familiar  with  the  lowest  haunts 
of  field  thieves  and  mendicants,  and  up  to  all  their  gibberish  ;  a 
horse-sorcerer  and  whisperer,  a  student  of  pugilism  under  Thurtell, 
and  himself  no  mean  practioneria  **the  noble  art  of  self-defense," 
but  withal  a  man  of  the  most  varied  gifts  and  accomplishments,— a 
philologist  or  "word-master,"  knowing  nearly  every  language  in 
Europe  and  the  East, — a  racy  and  original  writer,  with  the  force-  of 
Cobbett  and  the  learning  of  Parr,  — the  translator  of  the  Bible,,  or 
parts  of  it,  into  Mantchou,  Basque,  Eommaney,  or  Gypsy-ton>:ue, 
and  many  other  languages,  and  of  old  Danish  ballads  into  English, 
a  person  of  fascinating  conversation  and  of  powerful  eloquence. 
Fancy  these  varied  gifts  embodied  in  a  man  standing  six  feet  two  in 
his  stocking-soles,  his  frame  one  of  iron,  his  daring  and  intrepidity 
unmatched,  and  you  have  placed  before  your  mind's  eye  George 
Borrow,  the  Bible  missionary, — the  Gypsy  Hogarth, — the  emissary 
of  Exeter  Hall, — the  quondam  pupil  of  Thurtell,— Lavengro,  the 
Word -master ! 

One  wishes  to  know  much  of  this  extraordinary  being.  What  is 
his  history?  What  has  been  his  life ?  It  must  be  full  of  novel  ex- 
periences, the  like  of  which  was  never  before  written.  Well,  he  has 
written  a  book  called  "Lavengro,"  in  which  he  proposes  to  satisfy 
the  puV)lic  curiosity  about  himself,  and  to  illustrate  his  biography 
as  •*  Scholar,  Gypsy,  and  Priest."    The  book,  however,  is  not  all 

81 


88  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

fact ;  it  is  fact  mixed  liberally  with  fiction, — a  kind  of  poetic  rhap- 
sody ;  and  yet  it  contains  many  graphic  pictures  of  real,  life,-^iife 
little  known  of,  such  as  exists  to  this  day  among  the  by-lanes  and 
on  the  moors  of  England.  One  thing  is  obvious,  the  book  is  thor- 
oughly original,  like  all  Mr.  Borrow  has  written.  It  smells  of  the 
gr3  3:i  lanes  and  breezy  downs, — of  the  field  and  the  tent ;  and  his 
characters  bear  the  tan  of  the  sun  and  tbo  marks  of  the  weather 
upon  their  faces.  The  book  is  not  written  as  a  practiced  book- 
maker would  write  it ;  it  is  not  pruned  down  to  suit  current  tastes. 
Borrow  throws  into  it  whatever  he  has  picked  up  on  the  high-ways 
and  by-ways,  garnishing  it  up  with  his  own  imaginative  spicery  ad 
libitum,  and  there  you  have  it, — "Lavengro  ;  the  Scholar,  the  Gypsy, 
the  Priest !  "  But  the  work  is  not  yet  completed,  seeing  that  he  has 
only  as  yet  treated  us  to  the  two  former  parts  of  the  character ; 
"The  Priest "  is  yet  to  come,  and  then  we  shall  see  how  it  happened 
that  Exeter  Hall  was  enabled  to  secure  the  services  of  this  gifted 
missionary. 

From  his  childhood  George  Borrow  was  a  wanderer,  and  doubt- 
less his  early  associations  and  experiences  gave  their  color  to  his  fu- 
ture life.  His  father  was  a  captain  of  militia  about  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century,  when  the  principal  garrison  duties  of  the 
country  were  performed  by  that  force.  The  regiment  was  constantly 
moving  about  from  place  to  place,  and  thus  England,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland  passed  as  a  panorama  before  the  eyes  of  the  militia  officer's 
son.  He  was  born  at  East  Dereham,  in  Norfolk,  when  the  regiment 
was  lying  there  in  1803.  Borrow  claims  the  honor  of  gentle  birth, 
for  his  father  was  a  Cornish  gentillatre,  and  by  his  mother  he  wa-? 
descended  from  an  old  Huguenot  family,  who  were  driven  out  of 
France  at  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and,  like  many 
other  of  their  countrymen,  settled  down  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Norwich.  Borrow  the  elder  was  a  man  of  courage,  and  though 
never  in  battle,  he  fought  with  his  fists,  and  vanquished  "Big  Ben 
Brain,"  in  Hyde  Park,  a  feat  of  which  his  son  thinks  highly,  and 
the  more  so,  as  Big  Ben  Brain,  four  months  after  the  event,  **wa3 
champion  of  England,  having  vanquished  the  heroic  Johnson. 
Honor  to  Brain,  who,  at  the  end  of  four  other  months,  worn  out  by 
the  dreadful  blows  which  he  had  received  in  his  many  combats,  ex- 
pired in  the  arms  of  my  father,  who  read  the  Bible  to  him  in  his 
later  moments, — Big  Ben  Brain."  Such  are  the  son's  own  words  in 
his  autobiographic  "Lavengro." 

Borrow  had  one  brother  older  than  himself,  an  artist,  a  pupil  of 
Haydon,  the  historical  painter.  He  died  abroad  in  comparative 
vouth,  but  after  he  had  given  promise  of  excellency  in  his  profession. 
This  elder  brother  was  the  father's  favorite;  for  George,  when  a  child, 
was  moody  and  reserved, — a  lover  of  nooks  and  retired  corners, 
shunning  society,  and  sitting  for  hours  together  with  his  head  upon 
hiii  breast.     But  the  family  were  constantly  wandering  and  shifting 


GEORGE  BORKOW.  8^ 

aboijt,  following  the  quarters  of  the  regimeiit,  sometimes  living  in 
barracks,  sometimes  in  lodgings,  and  bometimes  in  camp.  At  a 
place  called  Pett,  in  Sussex,  they  thus  lived  under  canvas  walls;,  and 
here  tlie  lirst  snake-charming  incident  in  the  child's  life  occurred : 

'•It  happened  that  my  brother  and  rnyselfwere  playing  one  even- 
ing in  a  sandy  lane,  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  Pett  camp;  our 
mother  was  at'^a  slight  distance.  All  of  a  sudden  a  bright  yellow, 
and,  to  my  inf  intine  eye,  beautiful  and  glorious  object,  made  its 
ai^pearance  at  the  tojD  of  the  bank  from  between  the  thick  quickset, 
and,  glidingdown,  began  to  move  across  the  lane  to  the  other  side,  like 
a  line  of  golden  light.  Uttering  a  cry  of  pleasure,  I  sprang  forward, 
and  seized  it  nearly  by  the  middle.  A  strange  sensation  oi  numbing 
coldness  seemed  to  pervade  my  whole  arm,  which  surprised  me  the 
more,  as  the  object,  to  the  eye,  appeared  so  warm  and  sunlike.  I 
did  not  drop  it,  however,  but,  holding  it  up,  looked  at  it  intently,  as 
its  head  dangled  about  a  foot  from  my  hand.  It  made  no  resistance; 
I  felt  not  even  the  slightest  struggle;  but  now  my  brother  began  to 
Bcream  and  shriek  like  one  possessed.  *  O  mother,  mother  ! '  said  he, 
*  the  viper!  my  brother  has  a  viper  in  his  hand! '  He  then,  like  one 
frantic,  made  an  effort  to  snatch  the  creature  away  from  me.  The 
viper  now  hissed  amain,  and  raised  its  head,  in  which  were  eyes  like 
hot  coals,  menacing,  not  myself,  but  my  brother.  I  dropped  my 
captive,  for  I  saw  my  mother  running  towards  me;  and  the  reptile, 
after  standing  for  a  moment  nearly  erect,  and  still  hissint^  furiously, 
made  off,  and  disappeared.  The  whole  scene  is  now  before  me  as 
vividly  as  if  it  occurred  yesterday, — the  gorgeous  viper,  my  poor, 
dear,  frantic  brother,  my  agitated  parent,  and  a  frightened  hen 
clucldng  under  the  bushes, — and  yet  I  v/as  not  three  years  old." 

Borrow  cites  this  as  an  instance  of  the  power  which  some  persons 
I>ossess  of  exercising  an  inherent  power  or  fascination — call  it  mes- 
meric, if  you  will — over  certain  creatures;  and  he  afterwards  cites 
instances  of  the  same  kind,  or  the  taming  of  wild  horses  by  the 
utterance  of  words  or  whispers,  or  by  certain  movements,  which 
seemed  to  have  power  over  them. 

Thus  the  family  wandered  , through  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  Essex,  and 
Kent.  At  Hythe,  the  sight  of  a  huge  Danish  skull,  the  headpiece  of 
some  mighty  old  Scandinavian  pirate,  lying  in  the  old  penthouse 
adjoining  the  village  church,  struck  the  boy's  imagination  with  awe; 
and,  like  the  apparition  of  the  viper  in  the  sandy  lane,  it  dwelt  in 
bis  mind,  affording  copious  food  for  thought  and  wonder.  ''An 
indefinable  curiosity  for  all  that  is  connected  with  the  Danish  race 
began  to  pervade  me;  and  if,  long  after,  when  I  became  a  student,  I 
devoted  myself,  with  peculiar  zest,  to  Danish  lore,  and  the  acquire- 
ment of  the  old  Norse  and  its  dialects,  I  can  only  explain  the  matter 
by  the  early  impression  received  fit  Hythe  from  the  tale  of  the  old 
sexton  beneath  the  penthouse,  and  the  sight  of  the  huge  Danish 
fikuil."' 


90  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Borrow's  acquaintance  with  books  began  with  the  most  fasci- 
nating of  all  boys'  books, — and  which  has  preserved  its  popularity 
undiminished  far  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and,  while  boys's 
nature  remains  as  now,  will  hold  a  hip:h  place  in  English  literature, 
— the  entrancing,  fascinating,  deliji^htful  ''Robinson  Crusoe."  He 
afterwards  fell  in  with  another  almost  equally  interesting  book,  by 
th8  same  writer,  "Moll  Flanders,"  which  an  old  apple-woman  on 
London  Bridge  lent  him  to  read  while  he  sat  behind  her  stall  there; 
but  "llobinson"  exercised  by  far  the  greatest  influence  on  his 
mind,  and  probably  helped  in  no  slight  degree,  to  give  a  direction 
to  his  after  career. 

His  child- wanderings  continued  ;  Winchester,  Norman's  Cross 
near  Peterborough  (where  French  j^risoners  were  then  kept\  and 
many  other  places,  passed  before  liis  eyes.  At  Norman's  Cross 
when  he  was  seven  years  of  age,  he  met  with  a  serpent-charmer  ;  the 
man  was  catching  vipers  among  the  woods,  and  the  boy  accompanied 
him  in  his  wanderings,  learning  from  him  his  art  of  catching  vipers. 
When  the  old  man  left  the  neighborhood,  he  made  the  boy  a  present 
of  one  of  those  reptiles,  which  he  had  tamed,  and  rendered  quite 
harmless  by  removing  the  fangs. 

Three  years  passed  at  Norman's  Cross,  during  which  the  boy 
learned  Lilly's  Latin  grammar.  Then  the  regiment  removed 
towards  the  north,  halting,  for  a  time,  first  in  one  town  and  then  in 
another, —  in  Yorkshire,  in  Northumberland,  and  then  beyond  the 
Tweed,  at  Edinburgh,  where  the  regiment  was  quartered  in  the 
Castle,  standing  high  upon  its  crag,  overlooking  all  the  other  honsea 
in  that  interesting  city.  Here  he  was  initiated  into  the  boy-lii'e  of 
Edinburgh, — the  *•  bickers"  on  the  North  Loch  and  along  tlie  Castle 
Kill,  between  the  New  Town  and  the  Old,  already  immortalized  by 
Bir  Walter  Scott.  He  entered  a  pupil  in  the  High  School,  and 
gathered,  before  he  left,  some  further  acquaintance  with  Latin  and 
other  tongues.  Oddly  enough,  one  of  the  cronies  whom  he  picked 
up  when  residing  in  the  Castle,  or  engaged  in  "bickers"  on  the  face 
of  tlie  crag,  was  l3avid  Haggart,  then  a  drummer-boy,  afterwards  the 
most  notorious  of  Scotch  criminals,  and  hanged  for  murdering  the 
jailer  at  Dumfries,  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  escape.  But  Borrow's 
sympathi«  s  are  so  entirely  with  the  criminal  and  Gj'^psy  clnss,  that 
he  does  not  hesitate  to  compare  Ha.<:rgait  with  Tamerlane  !— the  only 
difference  being  that  "Tamerlane  was  a  heathen,  and  acted  accord- 
ing to  the  lights  of  his  country, — he  was  a  robber  while  all  around 
were  robbers,  whereas  Haggart"— then  after  a  strange  euloginm  of 
the  "strange  deeds"  of  Haggart,  he  concludes,  "Thou  mightest  | 
have  been  better  employed,  David  !  but  peace  be  with  thee,  I  repeat, 
and  the  Almighty's  grace  and  pardon  ! " 

Two  years  passed  in  Edinburgh,  during  which  time  the  young ' 
Borrow  acquired,  to  his  father's  horror,  the  unmistakable  dialect  of 
"the  High   School  callant."     Then  they  left;   the  militia  corpa» 


GEORGE  BORROW.  91 

returned  to  England,  and  were  disbanded.  Another  year  passed  in 
quiet  life  ;  1815  arrived,  and  Napoleon's  return  from  Elba  again 
Ithrew  the  whole  islo  into  consternation.  The  militia  were  raise. 1 
anew,  and  though  the  French  were  quelled,  disturbances  were 
threatened  in  Ireland,  and  thither  the  corps  with  which  Borrow's 
Ixither,  and  now  his  eldest  brother,  were  connected,  were  shipped 
from  a  port  in  Essex,  and  landed  at  Cork,  in  Ireland,  in  the  autumn 
of  the  year  above  named.  Up  the  country  they  went ;  it  became 
wilder  as  they  proceeded, — the  people  along  the  road-sides,  with 
whom  the  soldiers  jested  in  the  patois  of  East  Anglia,  answered 
them  in  a  rough,  guttural  language,  strange  and  wild.  The  soldiers 
stared  at  each  other,  and  were  silent.  It  was  Irish-Celtic  that  the 
people  spoke,  and  soon,  when  the  regiment  got  settled  in  quarters, 
young  Borrow  set  to  work,  and  learned  it  from  one  of  his  school-fel~ 
lows,  taking  lessons  in  Irish  from  him  in  exchange  for  a  pack  of 
cards. 

Borrow's  brother  having  been  sent  up  to  the  country  with  a  small 
detachment  of  men,  the  younger  brother  went  to  visit  him  in  his 
quarters, — crossed  the  bogs,  passed  many  old  ruined  castles  far  up 
on  the  heights,  on  many  of  which  "the  curse  of  Cromwell "  fell. 
He  was  overtaken  by  a  snow-storm  when  crossing  a  bog,  and  had 
I  nearly  been  d.evoured  by  a  wild  smuggler  and  his  dog,  when  a  fev/ 
I  words  of  Irish  uttered  by  him  at  once  cleared  his  road.     At  length 
'  he  reached  his  brother,  in  a  wild  out-of-the-way  place,  •the  offi- 
cer's" apartments  being  in  a  a  kind  of  hay-loft,  reached  by  a  ladder. 
Young  Borrow  now  learned  to  ride  ;  and  it  is  delightful  to  hear  him 
when  he  breaks  out  in  praise  of  horse-flesh.     One  morning  a  horse 
is  led  out  by  a  soldier,  that  the   youth  might  "give  him  a  breath- 
ing:"  he  thus  describes  the  horse  : 

**The  cob  was  led  forth  ;  what  a  tremendous  creature  !  I  had 
frequently  seen  him  before,  and  w^ondered  at  him  :  he  was  barely 
fifteen  hands,  but  he  had  the  girth  of  a  metropolitan  dray-hor.se ; 
his  head  was  small  in  comparison  with  his  immense  neck,  which 
curved  down  nobly  to  his  wide  back  ;,  his  chest  was  broad  and 
fine,  and  his  shoulders  models  of  symmetry  and  strength.  He 
stood  well  and  powerfully  upon  his  legvS,  which  were  somewhat 
short.  In  a  word,  he  was  a  gallant  specimen  of  the  genuine  Irish 
cob,  a  species  at  one  time  not  uncommon,  but  at  the  present  day 
nearly  extinct." 

He  mounted,  and  the  horse  set  off,  the  youth  on  its  bare  back. 
In  two  hours  he  made  the  circuit  of  the  Devil's  Mountain,  and  was 
returning  along  the  road  bathed  with  perspiration,  but  screaming 
with  delight,— the  cob  laughing  in  his  quiet,  equine  way,  scattering 
foam  and  pebbles  to  the  left  and  right,  and  trotting  at  the  rate  of 
sixteen  miles  an  hour.  Hear  his  enthusiasm  on  the  subject  of  the 
First  Eide  !— 

*•  0,  that  ride !  that  first  ride  !  most  truly  it  was  an  epoch  in  my 


92  •     imiEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

existence,  and  I  still  look  back  to  it  with  feelings  of  longing  and 
regret.  People  may  talk  of  first  love— it  is  a  very  agreeable  event, 
I  dare  say, — but  give  me  the  flush,  and  triumph,  and  glorious  sweat 
of  a  first  ride,  like  mine  on  the  mighty  cob  !  My  whole  frame  was 
sliaken,  it  it  true  ;  and  during  one  long  week  I  could  hardly  move 
foot  or  hand,  but  what  of  that?  by  that  one  trial  I  had  become  free, 
as  I  may  say,  of  the  whole  equine  species.  No  more  fatigue,  no 
more  stiffness  of  joints,  after  the  first  ride  round  the  Devil's  Hill  on 
the  cob." 

His  passion  for  horses  seems  almost  equal,  indeed,  to  his  passion 
for  boxiug,  for  Bibles,  for  languages,  and  for  Gypsy  life.  His  sense 
of  physical  life  is  intense  ;  and  wherever  muscular  energy  has  full 
play,  he  seem  to  be  in  his  native  element.  Afterwards,  when  in 
the  middle  of  one  of  his  sermons  at  Cordova  (tfee  his  *•  Gypsies  of 
Spain")  it  occurs  to  him  that  the  breed  of  horses  of  that  ancient 
city  is  first-rate,  and  off  he  goes  at  full  gallop,  like  a  hunter  who 
hears  a  horn,  into  a  masterly  sketch  of  the  Andalusian  Arab,  and 
how  to  groom  him  !  But  one  day,  while  in  Ireland,  an  ac  ddc-nt 
occurred  which  introduced  him  to  his  first  lesson  in  "horse-whis- 
pering : " 

*'By  good  luck  a  small  village  was  at  hand,  at  the  entrance  of 
which  was  a  large  shed,  from  which  proceeded  a  most  furious  noise 
of  hammering.  Leading  the  cob  by  the  bridle,  I  entered  boldly. 
*Shoe  this  horse,  and  do  it  quickly,  a-goup:h,'  said  I  to  a  wild,  grimy 
figure  of  a  man,  whom  I  found  alone,  fashioning  a  piece  of  iron. 

**  •  Arrigod  yuit?'  said  the  fellow,  desisting  from  his  work,  and 
staring  at  me, 

** '  O,  yes  ;  I  have  money,*  said  I,  *and  of  the  best,'  and  I  pulled 
out  an  English  shilling. 

*'*Tabhair  chugam?'  said  the  smith,  stretching  out  his  grimy 
hand. 

"  '  No,  I  sha'n't,*  said  I ;  *  some  people  are  glad  to  get  their  money 
when  their  work  is  done.' 

•'The  fellow  hammered  a  little  longer,  and  then  proceeded  to 
shoe  the  cob,  after  having  first  surveyed  it  with  attention.  He  per- 
formed his  job  rather  roughly,  and  more  than  once  appeared  to 
give  the  animal  unnecessary  pain,  frequently  making  use  of  loud 
and  boisterous  words.  By  the  time  the  work  was  done,  the  creature 
was  in  a  state  of  high  excitement,  and  plunged  and  tore.  The  smith 
stood  at  a  short'  distance,  seeming  to  enjoy  the  irritation  of  the  ani- 
mal, and  showing,  in  a  remarkable  manner,  a  huge  fang,  which 
projected  from  the  under  jaw  of  a  very  wry  mouth. 

"  *  You  deserve  better  handling,'  said  I,  as  I  went  up  to  the  cob, 
and  fondled  it ;  whereupon  it  whinnied,  and  attempted  to  touch  my 
face  with  its  nose. 

"  'Are  ye  not  afraid  of  that  beast?'  said  the  smith,  showing  his 
fang  ;  'arrah  !  it's  vicious  that  he  looks.' 


GEOEGE  BOltEOW.  &3 

•*  'It's  afc  you,  then  ;   I  don't  fear  him  ;'  and  thereupon  I  passed 
nnder  the  horse,  between  its  hind  legs. 
V^m*  *  And  is  that  all  you  can  do,  agrah?  *  said  the  smith. 
I^B^*  *No,'  said  I,  *I  can  ride  him.' 

«*  *  Ye  can  ride  him  ;  and  what  else,  agrah?' 
**  *I  can  leap  him  over  a  six-foo'^  wall,'  said  I. 
'*  *  0\  er  a  wall ;  and  what  more,  agrah  ? * 
"  *  Nothing  more,'  said  I ;  *what  more  would  you  have?' 
***Can  you  do  this,  agrah?'  said  the  smith;  and  he  uttered  a 
word,  which  I  had  never  heard  before,  in  a  sharp,  pungent  tone. 
The  effect  upon  myself  was  somewhat  extraordinary,  a  strange  thrill 
ran  through  me  ;  but  with  regard  to  the  cob  it  was  terrible  ;  the  an- 
imal forthwith  became  like  one  mad,  and  reared  and  kicked  with 
the  utmost  desperution. 

"  *Can  you  do  that,  agrah?'  said  the  smith. 

**  'What  is  it?'  said  I,  retreating  ;  *  I  never  saw  the  horse  so  oe- 
fore.' 

*'  'Go  between  his  hind  legs,  agrah,*  said  the  smith, — *his  hinder 
legs  ; '  and  he  again  showed  his  fang. 

*'  'I  dare  not,'  said  I ;  *he  would  kill  me.' 
*•  'He  would  kill  ye  !  r.nd  how  do  ye  know  that,  agrah?* 
"  'I  feel  he  w^ould,'  said  I ;  *  something  tells  me  so.' 
"  *  And  it  tells  ye  truth,  agrah  ;  but  it's  a  fine  beast,  and  it's  a  pity 
to  see  him  in  such  a  state  ;  lo  agam  airt  leigeas  ;'  and  here  he  mat- 
tered another  word,  in  a  voice  singularly  modified,  but  sweet  anl 
almost  plaintive.     The  effect  of  it  was  almost  instantaneous  as  that 
of  the  other,  but  how  different !  the  animal  lost  all  its  fury,  and  be- 
came at  once  calm  and  gentle.    The  smith  went  up  to  it,  coaxed  and 
patted  it,  making  use  of  various  sounds  of  equal  endearment ;  then 
turning  to  me,  and  holding  out  once  more  the  grimy  hand,  he  said, 
*  And  now  ye  will  be  giving  me  the  Sassanach  tenpence,  agrah  I '  " 

But  at  length  the  militia  were  all  disbanded,  and  the  Borrows  re- 
turned  to  England,  where  they  settled  down  at  Norwich.  The  two 
boys  were  now  growing  up,  and  the  elder  was  put  to  study  painting; 
the  second,  George,  was  still  at  his  books  and  rambles.  His  thoughts 
were  in  the  fields,  but  he  learned  French,  Italian,  and  German. 
His  spare  hours  w^ere  spent  in  fishing  or  shooting,  and  sometimes  in 
the  practice  of  the  "noble  art  of  self-defense."  One  day,  wh(^n  at- 
tending the  horse-fair  at  Norwich,  attracted  thither  by  the  sight  of 
the  fine  animals  which  he  so  much  admired,  he  fell  in  with  the  son 
of  the  Gypsy  man  he  had  before  met  in  the  lane  at  Norman's  Cross, 
and  shortly  after  he  followed  him  to  his  tent  beyond  the  moor.  The 
father  and  mother,  described  in  our  previous  extract,  had  by  this 
time  been  "bitchadoy  pawdel,"  that  ist  "banished  beyond  seas  for 
crime,"  and  their  son,  Jasper  Pentulengro,  now  the  Pharaoh  of  the 
Gypsies,  had  to  shift  for  himself.  From  this  time  Borrow's  inter- 
course with  the  wandering  Gypsies  was  frequent ;  he  accompanied 


94  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

them  to  ftirs,  l.?arned  their  language,  acquired  the  art  of  horse- 
Bhoeing,  familiarized  himself  with  their  ways  of  living, — uiuch  to 
the  horror  of  his  parents,  who  were  disgusted  with  his  loose  and 
wandering  habits. 

But  the  boy  was  now  fast  growing  up  into  the  man,  and  something 
must  be  done  to  break  him  into  the  ways  of  civilized  liie;  Iiis  father 
accordingly  cast  about  for  him,  and  at  length  succeeded  in  getting 
the  young  man  articled  to  a  lawyer  in  Norwich.  But  he  hated  the 
drudgery  of  the  desk,  and  made  no  progress  in  the  study  of  the  law. 
Blackstonewas  neglected  for  Danish  ballads  and  Welsh  poems.  "He 
made  the  grossest  blunders  in  his  business,  and  his  master  wished 
to  get  rid  of  him;  but  time  sped  on,  and  he  remained,  alternating 
his  studies  of  Ab  Gwilym  by  readings  of  the  lifeof  MooreCnrew,  "the 
King  of  the  Beggars,"  and  Murray  and  Latroon's  histories  of  illus- 
trious robbers  and  highwaymen.  Then  a  celebrated  fjght  would 
come  off  in  the  neighborhood,  and  be  sure  our  youth  was  present 
there.  Extraordinary  it  is,  how  Borrow,  the  misnionarj^  should  be 
the  one  man  living  to  eulogize  this  pastime  in  his  books  !  but  he  docs 
it,  both  in  his  *•  Gypsies  in  Sj^ain  "  and  in  **Lavongro."  In  both  he 
tolls  us  how  Thurtell,  the  murderer,  taug'iit  him  the  use  of  **th6 
gloves";  and  there  is  ono  famous  fight,  which  he  has  described  in 
glowing  language  in  both  these  books,  which  was  got  up  by  Thurtell 
and  Gypsy  Will,  the  latter  his  instructor  in  hoise-riding. 

•*I  have  known  the  timo,"  he  says,  "when  a  pugilistic  encounter 
between  two  noted  champions  was  almost  considered  in  the  light  of 
a  national  affair;  when  tens  of  thousands  of  individuals,  high  and 
low,  meditated  and  brooded  upon  it,  the  fust  thing  in  the  morning 
and  the  last  at  night,  until  the  great  event  was  decided.  But  the 
time  is  past,  and  many  people  will  say,  Thank  God  that  it  is;  all  I 
have  to  say  is,-  that  the  French  still  live  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water,  and  are  still  casting  their  eyes  hiiherward;  and  that,  in  the 
days  of  pugilism,  it  was  no  vain  boast  to  say,  that  one  Englishman 
was  a  match  for  two  of  t' otlier  race;  at  present  it  would  be  a  vain 
boast  to  say  so,  for  these  are  not  the  days  of  pugilism." 

And  again  he  says;  "What  a  bold  and  viL,'orous  aspect  pugilisra 
wore  at  that  time  !  and  the  great  Ijattlo  was  just  then  coming  off;  the 
day  had  been  decided  upon,  and  the  sj^ot,  a  convenient  distance 
from  the  old  town;— and  to  the  old  town  were  now  flocking  the 
bruisers  of  England,  men  of  tremendous  renown.  Let  no  one  sneer 
at  the  bruisers  of  England;  what  were  the  gladiators  of  Rome,  or  the 
buil-fighters  of  Sjiain  in  its  palmiest  days,  compared  to  England's 
bruisers  ?  Pity  that  corrugation  should  have  crept  in  amongst  them, 
— but  of  that  I  wish  not  to  speak;  let  us  still  hope  that  a  spark  of 
the  old  reliifion,  ofickick  ihcy  irere  tkepTiesis,  still  lingers  in  the  hearts 
of  Englisimien."  No,  Mr.  Borrow,  the  glories  of  pugilism,  like  those 
of  dueling,  bull-baiting,  and  bull-running,  have  all  departed,  and 
yet  England  stands  v>'here  it  did;    nay.  we  are  even  strongly  of 


I 


GEOBGE  BORROW.  95 


opinion  that  the  English  race,  instead  of  retrograding  thereby,  has 
achieved  an  unquestionable  moral  advancement.     But  we  willingly 
pass  over  this  part  of  Mr.  Borrow's  confessions,  which,  though  racily  , 
written,  have  a  very  unhealthful  tendency. 

At  length  Borrow's  father  dies;  his  articles  have  expired,  and  he  is 
thrown  u])oii  the  world  on  his  own  resources.  He  went  to  London, 
like  most  young  men  full  of  themselves  and  yet  wanting  help.  He 
packed  up  his  translations  of  the  Danish  ballads,  and  of  Ab  Gwilym's 
Welsh  poetry,  and  sought  for  a  publisher  on  his  arrival  in  London. 
Of  course  he  failed,  but  he  got  an  introduction  to  Sir  Richard  Phil- 
lips, and  through  his  instrumentality  Borrow  obtained  some  task- 
Vv^ork  from  a  publisher,  though  the  remuneration  derived  from  it 
w:is  so  trifling  that  he  could  scarcely  subsist.  He  compiled  livts  of 
highwaymen  and  criminals,  and  at  length,  when  reduced  to  his  last 
shilling,  wrote  a  story,  which  enabled  him  to  raise  sufficient  cash  to 
quit  the  metropolis,  which  he  did  on  the  instant,  and  started  on  a 
pedestrian  excursion  through  the  country.  His  life  in  London 
occuj^ies  the  second  volume  of  "Lavengro; "  it  seems  spun  out,  and 
reads  heavy, — very  inferior  in  interest  to  the  first  volume,  which 
contains  the  cream  of  the  book.  In  the  country  he  falls  in  with  a 
disconsolate  tinker,  who  has  been  driven  off  his  beat  by  the  *•  Flam- 
ing Tinman,"  a  gigantic  and  brutal  ruffian.  "Lavengro''  buys  the 
tinker's  horse,  cart,  and  equipment,  and  enters  upon  a  life  of  savage 
freedom,  many  parts  of  which  are  most  graphically  depicted.  At 
length  he  falls  in  with  the  **  Flaming  Tinman,'*  and  a  desperate  fight 
takes  place  between  them;  he  vanquishes  the  tinman,  and  gains  also 
one  of  the  tinman's  two  wives,  who  remains  with  him  in  the  Mum- 
per's Dingle,  where  they  encamp;  and  here  **Lavengro"  ends. 

He  does  not  tell  us  whether  his  encounter  with  the  *♦  Flaming 
Tinman,"  or  his  knowlegde  of  gypsy  and  hedge  life*,  had  anything 
to  do  with  his  after  career  ;  or  how  it  was  that  he  became  a  Bible 
society's  agent ;  probably  he  may  tell  us  something  more  of  that  by 
and  by. 

In  the  meantime  we  may  add  what  we  know  of  his  public  history 
in  connection  with  the  Bible  society,  who,  in  engaging  him,  possibly 
had  an  eye  more  to  the  end  than  the  means.  Specimens  of  his 
**  Kaempe  Viser,"  from  the  Danish,  were  printed  at  his  native  place, 
Norwich,  in  1825,  and,  shortly  after,  he  was  selected  by  the  Bible 
society  to  introduce  the  Scriptures  into  Russia.  He  resided  there 
for  several  years,  during  which  time  he  mastered  its  language,  the 
Sclavonian,  and  its  Gypsy  dialects.  He  then  prepared  an  edition  of 
the  entire  Testament  in  the  Tartar  Mantchou,  which  was  published  at 
St.  Petersburg,  in  1835,  in  eight  volumes.  It  was  at  St.  Petersburg 
that  he  published  versions  into  English  from  thirty  languages.  In 
the  meantime  he  had  been  in  France,  where  he  was  a  spectator,  if 
not  an  actor,  in  the  Revolution  of  the  Barricades.  Then  he  went  to 
Non^'ay,  crossed  into  Russia  again,  sojourned  among  the  Tartars, 


96  BEIEF  lilOGKAPHIES. 

amonoj  the  Turks,  the  Bohemians,  passed  into  Spain,  from  thence 
into  Barbary, — in  short,  the  sole  of  his  foot  has  never  rested;  his 
course  has  been  more  erratic  than  that  of  any  Gypsy,  far  more 
eccentric  than  that  of  his  brother  missionary,  Dr.  Wolff,  the  wander- 
ing Jew.  In  his  •*  Bible  in  Spain"  occurs  the  following  passage, 
which  flashes  a  light  upon  his  remarkably  varied  history: 

** I  had  returned  from  a  walk  in  the  countr3%  on  a  glorious  sun- 
shiny morningof  the  Andalusian  winter,  and  was  directing  my  steps 
towards  my  lodging.  As  I  was  passing  by  the  portal  of  a  large 
gloomy  bouse  near  the  gate  of  Xeres,  two  individuals, -dressed  in 
zamarras,  emerged  from  the  archway,  and  were  about  to  cross  my 
path,  when  one,  looking  in  my  face,  suddenly  started  back,  exclaim- 
ing in  the  purest  and  most  melodious  French,  *WhatdoIsee?  if 
my  eyes  do  not  deceive  me,  it  is  himself  Yes,  the  very  same,  as  I 
saw  him  first  at  Bayonne;  then,  longBubsequentl3%  beneath  the  brick 
wall  at  Novogorod;  then  beside  the  Bosphorus;  and  last,  at — at — O 
my  r3spcctable  and  cherished  friend,  where  was  it  that  I  had  last 
the  felicity  of  seeing  your  well-remembered  and  most  remarkable 
physiognomy?  * 

''Myself. — *It  was  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  if  I  mistake  not ;  was  it 
not  there  that  I  introduced  you  to  the  sorcerer  who  tamed  the  savage 
horses  by  a  single  whisper  into  their  ear?  But  tell  me,  what  brings 
you  to  Spain  and  Andalusia, — the  last  place  where  I  should  have 
expected  to  find  you?' 

*' Baron    Taylor. — 'And  wherefore,  my  most  respectable  B ? 

Is  not  Spain  the  land  of  the  arts;  and  is  not  Andalusia  of  all  Spain 
that  portion  which  has  produced  the  noblest  monuments  of  artistic 
excellence  and  inspiration  ?  But  first  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to 
your  c®mpatriot,  my  dear  Monsieur  W ,'  turning  to  his  com- 
panion (an  English  gentleman,  from  whom,  and  from  his  family,  I 
subsequently  experienced  unbounded  kindness  and  hospitality  on 
various  occasions  and  at  different  periods,  at  Seville\  *  allow  me  to 
introduce  to  you  my  most  cherished  and  respectable  friend;  one  who 
is  better  acquainted  with  Gypsy  ways  than  the  Chef  de  Boh^miens 
i  Triana;  one  who  is  an  expert  whisperer  and  horse-sorcerer;  an(J 
who,  to  his  honor  I  say  it,  can  wield  hammer  and  tongs,  and  handle 
a  horse-shoe  with  the  best  of  the  smiths  amongst  the  Alpujarras  of 
Granada.'" 

From  his  great  knowledge  of  languages,  physical  energies,  and 
extraordinary  intrepidity,  it  will  be  clear  enough  that  Mr.  Borrow 
was  not  ill  adapted  for  the  dangerous  mission  on  which  he  was 
engaged;  indeed,  he  seems  to  have  been  pointed  out  as  the  very 
man  for  the  work.  It  is  not  child's  play  to  go  into  foreign  coun- 
tries, such  as  Kussia  and  Sixain,  and  distribute  Bibles.  Fortunately 
for  liis  success  in  Spain,  the  country  was  in  a  state  of  great  disorder 
and  turbulence  at  the  time  of  his  mission  there,  so  that  his  move- 
ments were  not  so  much  watched  as  they  would  otherwise  have  been; 


GEOBGE  BOIIKOW.  97 

yet,  as  it  was,  he  became  familiar  with  the  interiors  of  half  the  jails 
in  the  Peninsula.  There  he  cultivated  his  acquaintance  vvith  the 
Gypsies  and  other  yagabond  races,  and  gathered  new  words  for  his 
Kommany  vocabulary .• 

While  in  Spain,  however,  he  did  more  than  cultivate  Rommany 
and  distribute  Bibles;  he  brought  out  Bishop  Scio's  version  of  the 
New  Testament  in  Spanish;  he  translated  St.  Luke  into  the  Gypsy 
language,  and  edited  the  same  in  Basque, — one  of  tiie  ianguaj^e^ 
most  difficult  of  attainment,  because  it  has  no  literature;  it  has  other 
difficulties,  for  it  is  hard  to  learn, — and  the  Basque  people  tell  a 
story  of  the  Devil  (who  does  not  lack  abilities)  having  been  detained 
among  them  seven  years  trying  to  learn  the  language,  which  he  at 
last  gave  up  in  despair,  having  only  been  able  to  learn  three  words. 
Humboldt  also  tried  to  learn  it,  with  no  better  success  than  his  pre- 
decessor. But  no  difficulty  was  too  great  for  Borrow  to  overcome; 
he  acquired  the  Basque,  thus  vindicating  his  claim  to  the  title  of 
**Lavengro,"  or  word-master. 

If  any  of  our  readers  should  happen  not  yet  to  have  read  "The 
Bible  in  Spain, "  we  advise  them  to  read  it  forthwith.  Though  irregu- 
lar, without  plan  or  order,  it  is  a  thoroughly  racy,  graphic,  and 
vigorous  book,  full  of  interest,  honest,  and  straightforward,  and 
without  any  cant  or  affectation  in  it;  indeed,  the  man's  prominent 
quality  is  honesty,  otherwise  we  should  never  have  seen  anything  of 
that  strong  love  of  pugilism,  horsemanship,  Gypsy  life,  and  physical 
daring  of  all  kinds,  of  which  his  books  are  full.  He  is  a  Bible  Harry 
Lorrequer, — a  missionary  Bampfj^lde  Moore  Carew, — an  Exeter  Hall 
bruiser, — a  polyglot  wandering  Gypsy.  Fancy  these  incongruities, 
— and  yet  George  Borrow  is  the  man  who  embodies  them  in  his  one 
extraordinary  person  1 


JECOOBAPHIES  3 


AUDUBON  THE  ORNITHOLOGIST. 


THE  great  naturalist  of  America,  John  James  Audubon,  left  be- 
hind  him,  in  his  "Birds  of  America"  and  *'Ornitholo;j:ical 
Biography,"  a  magnificent  monument  of  his  labors,  which 
through  life  were  devoted  to  the  illustration  of  the  natural  history 
of  his  native  country.  His  grand  work  on  the  Biography  of  Birds 
is  quite  unequaled  for  the  close  observation  of  the  habits  of  birds 
and  animals  which  it  displays,  its  glowing  pictures  of  American 
scenery,  and  the  enthusiastic  love  of  nature  which  breathes 
throughout  its  pages.  The  sunshine  and  the  open  air,  the  dense 
shade  of  the  forest,  and  the  boundless  undulations  of  the  prairies, 
the  roar  of  the  sea  beating  against  the  rock-ribbed  shore,  the  soli- 
tary wilderness  of  the  Upper  Arkansas,  the  savannas  of  the  South, 
the  beautiful  Ohio,  the  vast  Mississippi,  and  the  green  steeps  of  the 
AUeghanies, — all  were  as  familiar  to  Audubon  as  his  own  home. 
The  love  of  birds,  of  flowers,  of  animals,— the  desire  to  study  their 
habits  in  their  native  retreats, — haunted  him  like  a  passion  from 
his  earliest  years,  and  he  devoted  almost  his  entire  life  to  the 
pursuit. 

He  was  born  to  competence,  of  French  parents  settled  in  Amer- 
ica, in  the  state  of  Pennsylvania, — a  beautiful  green  undulating 
country,  watered  by  fine  rivers,  and  full  of  lovely  scenery.  **  When 
I  had  hardly  yet  learned  to  walk,"  says  he,  in  his  autobiography 
prefixed  to  his  work,  '*the  productions  of  nature  that  lay  spread 
all  around  were  constantly  pointed  out  to  me.  They  soon  became 
my  playmates  ;  and  before  myideas  were  sufficiently  formed  to  ena- 
ble me'to  estimate  the  difference  between  the  azure  tints  of  the  sky 
and  the  emerald  hue  of  the  bright  foliage,  I  felt  that  an  intimacy  • 

9S 


AUDUBON  THE  ORNITHOLOGIST.  99 

with  them,  not  consisting  of  friendship  merely,  but  bordering  on 
frenzy^  must  accompany  my  steps  through  life  ;  and  now,  more  than 
ever,  am  I  persuaded  of  the  power  of  those  early  impressions. 
They  laid  such  hold  of  me,  that,  when  removed  from  the  woods,  the 
prairies,  and  the  broolis,  or  shut  up  trom  the  view  of  the  wide  At- 
lantic, I  experienced  none  of  those  pleasures  most  congenial  to  my 
mind.  None  but  aerial  companions  suited  my  fancy.  No  roof 
seemed  so  secure  to  me  as  that  formed  of  the  dense  foliage  under 
which  the  feathered  tribes  were  seen  to  resort,  or  the  caves  and  fis- 
sures of  the  massy  rocks  to  which  the  dark-winged  cormorant  and 
the  curlew  retired  to  rest,  or  to  protect  themselves  from  the  fury  of 
the  tempest." 

Audubon  seems  to  have  inherited  this  intense  love  of  nature  from 
his  lather,  who  eagerly  encouraged  the  boy's  tastes,  procured  birds 
and  flowers  for  him,  pointed  out  their  elegant  movements,  told  him 
of  their  haunts  and  habits,  their  migrations,  changes  of  livery,  and 
so  on, — feeding  the  boy's  mind  with  vivid  pleasure  and  stimulating 
his  quick  sense  of  enjoyment.  As  he  grew  up  towards  manhood, 
these  tastes  grew  stronger  within  him,  and  he  longed  to  go  forth 
amid  the  forests  and  prairies  of  America  to  survey  the  native  wild 
birds  in  their  magnificent  haunts.  But,  meanwhile,  he  learned  to 
draw ;  he  painted  birds  and  flowers,  and  acquired  a  facility  of  de- 
lineation of  their  forms,  attitudes,  and  plumage.  Of  course  he  only 
reached  this  through  many  failures  and  defeats  ;  but  he  was  labori- 
ous and  full  of  love  for  his  pursuit,  and  in  such  a  case  ultimate  suc- 
cess is  certain. 

His  education  was  greatly  advanced  by  a  residence  in  France, 
thither  he  was  sent  to  receive  his  school  education,  returning  to 
America  at  the  age  of  seventeen.  In  Paris,  he  had  the  advantage  of 
studying  under  the  great  David.  He  revisited  the  woods  of  the  New 
"World  with  fresh  ardor  and  increased  enthusiasm.  His  father  gave 
him  a  fine  estat-e  on  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill ;  and  amidst  its 
beautiful  woodlands,  its  extensive  fields,  its  hills  crowned  with  ever- 
greens, he  pursued  his  delightful  studies.  Another  object  about  the 
same  time  excited  his  passion,  and  he  soon  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
husband.  But  though  Audubon  loved  his  wife  most  fondly,  his 
first  ardent  love  had  been  given  to  nature.  It  was  his  genius  and 
destiny,  which  he  could  not  resist,  and  he  was  drawn  on  towards  it 
in  spite  of  himself. 

He  engaged,  however,  in  various  branches  of  commerce,  none  of 
which  succeeded  with  him,  his  mind  being  preoccupied  by  his 
favorite  study.  His  friends  called  him  **fool," — all  excepting  his 
wife  and  children.  At  last,  irritated  by  the  remarks  of  relatives 
and  otliers,  he  broke  entirely  away  from  the  pursuits  of  trade,  and 
gave  himself  up  wholly  to  natural  history.  He  ransacked  the  woods, 
the  lakes,  the  prairies,  and  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic,  spending 
years  away  from  his  home  and  family.     His  object,  at  first,  was  not 


100  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

to  become  a  writer  ;  but  simply  to  indnlcje  a  passion, — to  enjoy  the 
sight  of  nature.  It  was  Charles  Lucian  i3onaparte,  an  accomplished 
naturalist,  who  first  incited  him  to  arrange  his  beautiful  drawings 
in  a  form  for  publication,  and  to  enter  upon  his  grand  work,  "The 
Birds  of  America."  He  now  explored  over  and  over  again  the  woods 
and  the  prairies,  the  lakes,  the  rivers,  and  the  sea-shore,  with  this 
object  in  view  ;  but  when  he  had  heaped  together  a  mass  of  infor- 
mation, and  collected  a  large  number  of  drawings  an  untoward 
accident  occurred  to  his  collection,  which  we  cannot  help  relating 
in  his  own  words  : 

**I  left  the  village  of  Henderson,  in  Kentucky,  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ohio,  where  I  resided  for  several  years,  to  proceed  to 
Philadelj^hia  on  business.  I  looked  to  all  my  drawings  (ten  hun- 
dred in  number)  before  my  departure,  placed  them  carefully  in  a 
box,  and  gave  them  in  charge  to  a  relative  with  injunctions  to  sco 
that  no  injury  happened  to  them.  My  absence  was  of  several 
months;  and  when  I  returned,  after  havinc;  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of 
home  for  a  few  days,  1  inquired  after  my  box,  and  what  I  was  pleased 
to  call  my  treasure.  The  box  was  produced,  and  opened,  but, 
reader,  feel  for  me,— a*pair  of  Norway  rats  had  taken  possession  of 
the  whole,  and  had  reared  a  young  family  amongst  the  gnawed  bits 
of  paper,  which,  but  a  few  months  ago  had  represented  nearly  a 
thousand  inhabitants  of  the  air !  The  burning  heat  which  instantly 
rushed  through  my  brain  was  too  great  to  be  endured,  without  affect- 
ing the  whole  of  my  nervous  system.  1  Bh-pt  not  for  several  nights, 
and  the  days  passed  like  days  of  oblivion,  until  the  animal  powers 
being  recalled  into  action,  through  the  strength  of  my  constitution, 
I  took  up  my  gun,  my  note-book,  and  my  pencils,  and  went  forth  to 
the  woods  as  gayly  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  felt  pleased  that 
I  might  now  make  much  better  drawings  than  before,  and  ere  a 
period  not  exceeding  three  years  had  elapsed,  I  had  my  portfolio 
filled  again." 

While  you  read  Audubon's  books,  you  feel  that  you  are  in  the 
society  of  no  ordinary  naturalist.  Everything  he  notes  down  is  the 
result  of  his  own  observation.  Nature,  not  books,  has  been  his  teacher. 
You  feel  the  fresh  air  blowing  in  your  facp,  sc^nt  the  odor  of  the 
prairie -flowers  and  the  autumn-woods,  and  hear  the  roar  of  the  surf 
along  the  sea-shore.  He  takes  you  into  the  squatter's  hut  in  the  lonely 
swamp,  where  you  listen  to  the  story  of  the  wood-cutter's  life,  and 
sally  out  in  tho'nighttohunt  the  cougar  ;  or  he  lannoliesyou  on  the 
Ohio  in  a  light  skiff,  v>^here  he  paints  for  you  in  glowing  words 
the  rich  autumnal  tints  decorating  the  shores  of  that  queen  of 
rivers, — every  tree  hung  with  long  and  flov/ing  festoons  of  different 
species  of  vines,  many  loaded  with  clustered  fruits  of  varied  bril- 
liancy, their  rich  bronzed  carmine  mingling  beautifully  with  the 
yellow  foliage  predominating  over  the  green  leaves, — gliding  down 
the  river,  under  the  rich  and  glowing  sky  which  characterizes  what 


AUDUBON  THE  OBNiT|?;OLOai^T.        ,'  f  ,',  \  ipl 

is  called  the  "Indian  summer,"  and  reminding  you  of  the  delicious 
description  in  Longfellow's  "Evangeline  :" 

Kow  tJtirougli  rushing  chutes,  among"  gTeen  Islands,  wliere,  plum-Uke, 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept  with  the  current. 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sandbars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  oi'  their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  Hocks  of  pelicans  w^aded. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs  o£  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid- air 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient  cathedrals. 

Then  from  a  neighboring  thicket  the  mocking-bird,  wildest  of  singers, 

Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow-soray  that  hung  o'er  the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  throat  such  Hoods  of  delirious  music. 

That  the  whole  air,  and  the  woods,  and  the  waves,  seemed  silent  to  listen. 

In  one  of  his  excursions  on  the  Ohio,  Audubon  was  accompanied 
by  his  wife  and  eldest  son,  then  an  infant;  and  they  floated  on  from 
Pennsylvania  to  Kentucky,  sleeping  and  living  in  the  boat,  under 
the  Indian  summer  sun  and  the  mellowed  beauty  of  the  moon,  skirt- 
ing the  delicious  shores,  so  picturesqug  and  lovely  at  that  autumn 
season,  gliding  along  the  stream,  and  meeting  with  no  other  ripple 
of  the  water  than  that  formed  by  the  propulsion  of  the  boat.  The 
margins  of  the  river  were  at  that  time  (for  this  voyage  took  place 
about  forty  years  ago)  abundantly  supplied  with  game,  and  occa- 
sionally the  party  landed  at  night  on  the  green  shore;  a  few  gun- 
shots procured  a  wild  turkey  or  grouse,  or  a  blue-winged  teal;  a  fire 
was  struck  up,  and  a  comfortable  repast  secured ;  after  which  the 
family  again  proceeded  quietly  on  their  way  down  stream.  The 
following  is  only  one  of  the  many  lovely  pictures  sketched  by  Audu- 
bon of  this  enchanting  sail,  which  probably  Longfellow  had  in  his 
eye  when  he  penned  the  charming  description  in  his  "Evangeline." 

"  As  night  came,  sinking  in  darkness  the  broader  portions  of  the 
river,  our  minds  became  affected  by  strong  emotions,  and  wandered 
far  beyond  the  present  moments.  The  tinkling  of  the  bells  told  us 
that  the  cattle  which  bore  them  were  gently  roving  from  valley  to 
valley  in  search  of  food,  or  returning  to  their  distant  homes.  The 
hooting  of  the  great  owl,  or  the  muffled  noise  of  its  wings  as  it  sailed 
smoothly  over  the  stream,  were  matters  of  interest  to  us;  so  was  the 
sound  of  the  boatman's  horn,  as  it  came  more  and  more  softly  from 
afar.  ^  When  daylight  returned,  many  songsters  burst  forth  with 
echoing  notes,  more  and  more  mellow  to  the  listening  ear.  Here 
and  there  the  lonely  cabin  of  a  squatter  struck  the  eye,  giving  note 
of  commencing  civilization.  The  crossing  of  the  stream  by  a  deer 
foretold  how  soon  the  hills  would  bo  covered  with  snow.'' 

The  scene  is  greatly  changed  since  then.  The  shores  are  inhabited ; 
the  woods  are  mainly  cleared  away;  the  great  herds  of  elk,  deer,  and 
buffalo  have  ceased  to  exist;  villages,  farms,  and  towns  margin  the 
Ohio ;  hundreds  of  steamboats  are  plying  up  and  down  the  river,  by 


10^  BBIKF  'BlOGllAPHIES. 

night  and  by  day;  and  thousands  of  British  and  American  emi- 
grants have  settled  down,  in  ail  directions,  to  the  pursuits  of  agri- 
culture and  commerce,  where  only  forty  years  ago  was  heard  the 
hoot  of  the  owl,  the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will,  and  the  sharp  stroke 
of  the  squatter's  axe. 

Or,  he  takes  you  into  the  Great  Pine  Swamp,  like  a  "mass  of 
darkness,"  the  ground  overgrown  by  laurels  and  pines  of  all  sorts; 
he  has  his  gun  and  note-book  in  hand,  and  soon  you  have  the  wood- 
thrush,  wild  turke^^s,  pheasants,  and  grouse  lying  at  his  leet,  with 
the  drawings  of  w^hich  he  enriches  his  portfolio;  or  j'ou  are  listening 
to  his  host,  while  he  reads  by  the  log  fire  the  glorious  poetry  of 
Burns.  A^'ain,  you  are  with  him  on  the  wild  prairie,  treading 
some  old  Indian  track,  amid  brilliant  flowers  and  long  grass, 
the  favrns  and  their  dams  gamboling  along  his  path,  and  across 
boundless  tracts  of  rich  lands  as  yet  almost  untrodden .  by  the 
foot  of  the  white  man,  and  then  only  by  the  Canadian  trappers 
or  Indian  missionaries.  Or  he  is  on  the  banks  of  the  Missis- 
sippi, where  the  great  magnolia  shoots  up  its  majestic  trunk, 
crowned  with  evergreen  leaves,  and  decorated  with  a  thousand 
beautiful  flowers,  that  perfume  the  air  around ;  where  the  forests  and 
fields  are  adorned  with  blossoms  of  every  hue ;  where  tke  golden 
orange  ornaments  the  gardens  and  the  groves;  where  the  white- 
flowered  Stuartia  and  innumerable  vines  festoon  the  dense  foliage 
of  the  'magnificent  woods,  shedding  on  the  vernal  breeze  the  perfume 
of  their  clustered  flowers;  there,  by  the  side  of  deep  streams,  or 
tinder  the  dense  foliage,  he  watches  by  night  the  mocking-bird,  the 
whip-poor-will,  the  yellow-'throat,  the  humming-bird,  and  the  thou- 
sand beautiful  songsters  of  that  delicious  land.  Then  a  crevasse, 
or  sudden  irruption  of  the  swollen  Mississippi,  occurs,  and  forth- 
with he  is  floating  over  the  submerged  lands  of  the  interior,  nature 
all  silent  and  melancholy,  unless  when  the  mournful  bleating  of  the 
hemmed-in  deer  reaches  the  ear,  or  the  dismal  scream  of  an  eagle 
or  a  raven  is  heard,  as  the  bird  rises  from  the  carcass  on  which  it 
had  been  allaying  its  appetite. 

How  gloriously  Audubon  paints  the  eagle  of  his  native  land  !  The 
American  white-headed  eagle,  that  haunts  the  Mississippi,  stands 
sculptured  before  your  eyes  in  his  book.  See  !  he  takes  wing,  and 
there  you  have  him  w^hirling  up  into  the  air  as  a  noble  swan  comes 
in  sight,  and  now  there  is  the  screaming  pursuit  and  the  fatal 
struggle. 

"Now is  the  moment  to  witness  the  display  of  the  eagle's  powers. 
He  glides  through  the  air  like  a  falling  star,  and,  like  a  flash  of 
lightning,  comes  upon  the  timorous  quarry,  which  now,  in  agony 
and  despair,  seeks  by  various  maneuvers,  to  elude  the  grasp  of  his 
cruel  talons.  It  mounts,  doubles,  and  willingly  would  plunge  into 
the  stream,  were  it  not  prevented  by  the  eagle,  which,  long  pos- 
sessed of  the  knowledge  that  by  such  a  stratagem  the  swan  might 


Al'DUBON   THE  ORNITHOLOGIST.  103 


escape  him,  forces  it  to  remain  in  the  air,  by  attempting  to  strilie  it 
with  his  talons  from  beneath.  The  hope  of  escape  is  soon  given  up 
by  the  swan.  It  has  already  become  much  w^eakened,  and  its 
strength  fails  at  the  sight  of  tlie  courage  and  swiftness  of  its  antag- 
onist. Its  last  gasp  is  about  to  escape,  when  the  ferocious  eagle 
strikes  with  his  talons  the  under  side  of  its  wing,  and,  with  unre- 
sisted power,  forces  the  bird  to  fall  in  a  slanting  direction  uj^on  the 
nearest  shore." 

Then  we  have  the  same  bird  on  the  Atlantic  shore  in  pursuit  of  the 
fish-hawk.  *' Perched  on  some  tall  summit,  in  view  of  the  ocean,  or 
of  some  watercourse,  he  watches  every  motion  of  the  osprey  while 
on  wing.  When  the  latter  rises  from  the  water  with  a  fish  in  its 
grasp,  forth  rushes  the  eagle  in  pursuit.  He  mounts  above  the  fish- 
hawk,  and  threatens  it  by  actions  w^ell  understood,  when  the  latter, 
fearing  perhaps  that  his  life  is  in  danger,  drops  its  prey.  In  an 
instant  the  eagle,  accurately  estimating  the  rapid  descent  of  the  fisb, 
closes  his  wings,  follows  it  witli  the  swiftness  of  thought,. and  the 
next  moment  grasps  it.  The  prize  is  carried  off  in  silence  to  the 
woods  and  assists  in  feeding  the  ever-hungry  brood  of  the  eagle." 

But  Audubon  did  not  like  the  white-headed  eagle,  no  more  than 
did  Franklin,  who,  in  common  with  the  ornithologist,  regretted  its 
adoption  as  the  emblem  of  America,  because  of  its  voracity,  its  cow- 
ardice, and  its  thievish  propensities.  Audubon's  favorite  amocg 
the  eagles  of  America  was  the  great  eagle  or  "  The  Bird  of 
"Washington,"  as  he  named  it.  He  first  saw  this  grand  bird  when 
on  a  trading  voyage  with  a  Canadian,  on  the  Up[)er  Mississippi, 
and  his  delight  was  such  that  he  says,  ''Not  even  Herschel  when  he 
discovered  the  planet  that  bears  his  name,  could  have  experienced 
more  rapturous  feelings."  But  the  bird  had  soon  iiown  over  the 
heads  of  the  party  and  became  lost  in  the  distance.  Three  years 
elapsed  before  he  sav/  another  specimen  ;  and  then  it  was  when 
engaged  in  collecting  cray-fish  on  one  of  the  flats  whicli  border  and 
divide  Green  Eiver,  in  Kentucky,  near  its  junction  with  the  Ohio, 
that  he  discerned,  up  among  the  high  cliffs  wbich  there  follow  the 
windings  of  the  river,  the  marks  of  an  eagle's  nest.  Climbing  his 
way  towards  it,  he  lay  in  wait  for  the  parent :  two  hours  elapsed, 
and  then  the  loud  hissing  of  two  young  eagles  in  the  nest  announced 
the  approach  of  the  old  bird,  which  drew  near  and  dropped  in 
among  them  a  fine  fish.  "I  had  a  perfect  view,"  he  says,  "of  the 
noble  bird  as  ho  held  himself  to  tbe  edging  rock,  hanging  like  the 
barn,  bank,  or  social  swallow,  his  tail  spread,  and  his  wings  partly 
BO.  In  a  few  minutes  the  other  parent  joined  her  mate,  and  from 
the  difference  in  size  (the  female  of  rapacious  birds  being  much 
larger)  we  knew  this  to  be  the  mother  bird.  She  also  had  brought 
a  fish,  but,  more  cautious  than  her  mate,  she  glanced  her  quick  and 
piercing  eye  around,  and  instantly  perceived  that  her  abode  had 
been  discovered.     She  dropped  her  prey,  with  a  loud  shriek  commu- 


104  BEIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

nicated  the  alarm  to  her  mate,  and,  hovering  with  him  over  our 
heads,  kept  \ip  a  growling  cry,  to  intimidate  us  from  our  suspected 
design.  This  watchful  solicitude  I  have  ever  found  peculiar  to  the 
female  ;  must  I  be  understood  to  speak  only  of  birds  V  " 

Two  years  more  passed  in  fruitless  efforts  to  secure  a  specimen 
of  this  rare  bird;  but  at  last  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  shoot  one; 
and  then  gave  it  the  name  it  bears,  **  The  Bird  of  Washington,"  the 
noblest  bird  of  its  genus  in  the  States.  "Why  he  so  named  the  bird 
he  thus  explains  :  "To  those  who  may  be  curious  to  know  my  rea- 
sons, I  can  only  say,  that,  as  the  New  World  gave  me  birth  and  lib- 
erty, the  great  man  who  insured  its  independence  is  next  to  my 
heart.  He  had  a  nobility  of  miud  and  a  generosity  of  soul  such  as 
are  seldom  possessed.  He  was  br.^vo,  so  is  the  eagle;  like  it,  too,  he 
was  the  terror  of  his  foes;  and  iiis  fame,  extending  from  pole  to 
pole,  resembles  the  majestic  Boarings  of  the  mightiest  of  the  feath- 
ered tribes.  If  America  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  her  Washington, 
BO  has  she  to  be  proud  of  her  Great  Eagle." 

In  the  course  of  his  extensive  wanderings,  Audubon  experienced 
all  sorts  of  adventures.  Once  he  was  witiiin  an  inch  of  his  life  in 
a  solitary  squatter's  hut  in  one  of  the  wide  prairies  of  the  ui:)per 
Mississippi;  in  one  of  the  extensive  swamps  of  the  Choctaw  terri- 
tory ill  the  state  of  Mississippi,  he  joined  in  the  hunt  of  a  ferocious 
cougar  or  paijifer  (panther)  w^hich  had  been  the  destruction  of  the 
flocks  in  that  neighborliood;  in  the  Banem  of  Kentucky  he  was 
once  surprised  by  an  earthquake,  the  ground  rising  and  falling  un- 
der his  terrified  horse  like  the  ruffled  v/ a ters  of  a  lake;  he  becam.e 
familiar  with  storms  and  hurricanes,  v/hich  only  afforded  new  sub- 
jects for  his  graphic  pen;  he  joined  in  the  Kentucky  hunting  sports, 
or  with  the  Indian  expeditions  on  the  far  j^x'airie;  he  witnessed  the 
astounding  flights  of  wild  pigeons  in  countless  multitudes,  lasting 
for  whole  days  in  succession,  so  that  ''the  air  was  literally  filled 
with  pigeons,  the  light  of  noonday  obscured  as  by  an  eclipse,  the 
dung  fell  in  spots  not  unlike  melting  flakes  of  snow,  and  the  con- 
tinued buzzing  of  the  millions  of  wings  had  a  tendency  to  lull  the 
senses  to  repose," — one  of  these  enormous  flocks  extending,  it  is 
estimated  by  Audubon,  over  a  space  of  not  less  than  180  miles; 
then  he  is  on  the  trail  of  the  deer  or  the  buffalo  in  the  hunting- 
grounds  of  the  Far  West,  he  misses  his  way,  and  lies  down  for  the 
night  in  the  copse  under  the  clear  sky,  or  takes  shelter  with  a  trap- 
per, where  he  is  always  welcome;  then  he  is  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
spending  weeks  togetTher  in  the  pursuit  of  birds,  or  observing  their 
haunts  and  habits;  then  he  is  in  the  thick  of  a  bear -hunt.  Such  is 
the  rapid  succession  of  objects  that  passes  before  you  in  the  first 
volume  of  the  "Birds  of  America,"  interspersed  with  delicious  de- 
scriptions of  such  birds  as  the  mocking-bird,  whip-poor-will,  hum- 
ming-bird, wood-thrush,  and  other  warblers  of  the  forest. 

Iii  his  description  of  the  wood-thrush,  which  he  confesses  to  be 


AUDUBON  THE  OBNITHOI/  GIST.  105 

liis  *' greatest  favorite  of  the  feathered  tribes,"  you  see  somethiDg  of 
the  hardships  to  which  he  exposed  himself  by  the  enthusiasm  with  - 
which  he  followed  his  exciting  pursuit..  **Hovr  often  J'  he  says, 
"  has  it  revived  my  drooping  spirits  when  I  have  listened  to  its  wild 
notes  in  the  forest,  after  passing  a  restless  night  in  my  slender  shed, 
so  feebly  secured  against  the  violence  of  tlie  storm  as  to  show  me  the 
futility  of  my  best  efforts  to  rekindle  my  little  fire,  whose  uncertain 
and  vacillating  light  had  gradually  died  away  under  the  destruct- 
ive weight  of  the  dense  torrents  of  rain  that  seemed  to  involve  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  in  one  mass  of  fearful  murkiness,  save  when 
the  red  streaks  of  the  flashing  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  dazzled 
eye,  and,  glancing  along  the  huge  trunk  of  the  stateliest  and  noblest 
tree  in  the  immediate  neighborhood,  were  instantly  followed  by  an 
uproar  of  crackling,  crashing,  and  deafening  sounds,  rolling  their 
volumes  in  tumultuous  eddies  far  and  near,  as  if  to  silence  the  very 
breathings  of  the  unformed  thought.  How  often,  after  such  a  night, 
when  far  from  my  dear  home,  and  deprived  of  the  presence  of  those 
nearest  and  dearest  to  my  heart,  wearied,  hungry,  drenched,  and  so 
lonely  and  desolate  as  almost  to  question  myself  why  I  was  thus 
situated  ;  v/hen  I  have  seen  the  fruits  of  my  labors  on  the  eve  of 
being  destroyed,  as  the  water  collected  in  a  stream,  rushed  through 
my  little  camp,  and  forced  me  stand  erect,  shivering  in  a  cold  fit, 
like  that  of  a  severe  ague  ;  when  I  have  been  obliged  to  wait  with 
the  patience  of  a  martyr  for  the  return  of  day,  trying  in  vain  to 
destroy  the  tormenting  mosquitoes,  silently  counting  over  the  years 
of  my  youth,  doubting,  perhaps,  if  ever  again  I  should  return  to  my 
home,  and  embrace  my  family  , — how  often,  as  the  first  glimpses  of 
morning  gleamed  doubtfully  amongst  the  dusky  masses  of  the  forest- 
trees,  has  there  come  upon  my  ear,  thrilling  along  the  sensitive  ' 
cords  which  connect  that  organ  with  the  heart,  the  delightful  music 
of  this  harbinger  of  day  ;  and  how  fervently,  on  such  occasions, 
have  I  blessed  the  Being  who  formed  the  wood-thrush,  and  placed 
it  in  those  solitary  forests,  as  if  to  console  me  amidst  my  privations, 
to  cheer  my  depressed  mind,  and  to  make  me  feel,  as  I  did,  that 
never  ought  man  to  despair,  whatever  may  be  his  situation,  as  he 
can  never  be  certain  that  aid  and  deliverance  are  not  at  hand." 

After  many  years  of  persevering  toil,  when  he  had  collected  a 
rich  treasure  of  original  drawings  of  the  birds  of  America,  many  of 
which  up  to  that  time  were  altogether  unknown,  and  had  never 
been  described,  Audubon  proceeded  to  the  then  two  chief  cities  of 
the  States,  Philadelphia  and  New  York,  and  endeavored  to  find  a 
publisher.  Ho  sought  for  one  in  vain  !  Some  said  his  book  would 
never  sell,  others  that  his  drawings  could  neverbe  engraved.  Au- 
dubon v/as  of  a  resolute  spirit,  and  had  learned  to  brave  all  manner 
of  difficulties  in  the  pine-woods  and  the  prairies,  and  he  determined 
that  he  would  find  ia  publisher.  America  was  not  the  world  ;  he 
would  carry  his  collections  to  Europe,  and  try  and  find  a  publisher 
there. 


106    ^  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

He  came  to  Englaml  in  1827,  and  was  welcomed  v/ith  open  arms. 
Many  yet  remember  the  glowing  enthusiasm  of  the  "American 
Woodsman,"  and  tho  ardent  eloquence  of  his  descriptions  of  the 
glorious  rivers,  the  wide  prairies,  the  magnificent  vegetation,  and 
the  ornithological  treasures  of  his  native  country.  **A11  mankind 
love  a  lover,"  and  here  was  one  of  the  most  ardent,  kindling  all 
hearts  with  a  generous  glow.  His  drawings  were  exhibited  and 
greatly  admired.  From  Liverpool,  where  he  landed,  he  proceeded 
to  Scotland,  the  land  of  Burns,  for  he  "longed  to  see  the  men  and 
scenes  immortalized  by  his  fervid  strains."  He  reached  Edinburgh, 
and  was  "received  as  a  brother  '*  by  the  mos.t  distinguished  scientific 
and  literary  men  of  that  metropolis.  There  he  found  a  publisher 
in.  Adam  Black,  with  Lizars  for  his  engraver.  The  first  number  of 
his  magniticent  illustrations  appeared  in,  1825,  and  the  first  com- 
plete volume  of  the  *•  Ornithological  Biography  '*  in  1831.  The  work 
was  received  with  general  laudations.  Nothing  of  the  kind  equal  to 
it  in  riveting  interest  had  appeared  before;  and  it  still  stands  un- 
rivaled. He  proposed  to  devote  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the 
completion  of  )iis  work.  Sixteen  years  was  the  time  he  had  esti- 
mated as  required  for  the  preparation  and  production  of  the  whole. 
Observing  on  the  time  remaining  for  its  completion,  he  says  :  "After 
all,  it  will  be  less  than  the  jperiod  frequently  given  by  many  persons 
to  the  maturation  of  certain  wines  placed  in  their  cellars."  It  is 
not  thus  that  men  generally  write  nowadays,  post-haste  and  at 
railroad  speed.  Audubon's  object  was  to  do  his  work — one  work — 
thoroughly  and  well,  so  as  to  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  after  it; 
and  he  has  done  it  gloriously. 

In  the  introduction  to  his  third  volume,  published  in  1835,  ho 
said:  **Ten  years  have  now  elapsed  since  the  first  number  of  my 
'Illustrations  of  the  Birds  of  America'  made  its  appearance.  At 
that  period,  I  calculated  that  the  engravers  would  take  sixteen  years 
in  accomplishing  their  task;  and  this  I  announced  in  my  prospec- 
tus, and  talked  of  to  my  friends."  At  that  time,  there  was  not  a 
single  individual  who  encouraged  him  to  proceed;  they  all  called 
him  "rash,"  advised  him  to  abandon  his  plans,  disi)ose  of  his 
drawings,  and  give  up  the  project.  When  he  delivered  the  first 
drawings  to  the  engraver,  he  had  not  a  single  subscriber;  but  he  had 
deiermined  on  success,  and  he  persevered.  "  To  will  is  to  do,"  says 
the  maxim,  and  it  was  Audubon's.  "My  heart  was  nerved,"  he 
says,  "and  my  reliance  on  that  Power  on  whom  all  must  depend 
brought  bright  anticipations  of  success.  I  worked  early  and  late, 
and  glad  I  was  to  perceive  that  the  more  I  labored  the  more  I  im- 
proved." Subscribers  at  length  supported  him,  and  encouraged 
him,  when  they  saw  he  was  bent  on  success,  and  at  the  end  of  some 
four  years  of  great  anxiety,  his  engraver,  Mr.  Havell,  presented  him 
with  the  first  volume  of  his  "Birds  of  America." 

In  the  interval  he  made  several  voyages  l^etween  the  United  States 


AUDUBON  THE  OrvNITHOLOGIST.  107 

and  England,  pursuing  his  ornithological  observations  there,  and 
superintending  his  publication  here.  In  1823  he  visited  the  illus- 
trious Cuvier  at  Paris.  He  spent  the  winter  in  England,  and  went 
out  to  the  States  in  April,  1829.  ''With  what  pleasure,"  he  says, 
'•did  I  gaze  on  each  setting  sun,  as  it  sank  in  the  far  distant  west  I 
With  what  delight  did  I  mark  the  first  wandering  American  bird 
that  hovered  over  the  waters!  and  how  joyous  were  my  feelings 
when  I  saw  a  pilot  on  our  deck  !  I  leaped  on  the  shore,  scoured 
the  woods  of  the  Middle  States,  and  reached  Louisiana  in  the  end 
of  November.**  Louisiana  was  one  of  his  favorite  localities  for  tho 
Rtudy  of  birds;  and  Audubon  often  lingered  there.  In  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  **  great  blue  heron  "  and  other  birds  which  frequent 
that  state,  he  shows  how  familiar  he  is  with  its  luxuriant  swamps. 
•*Imagine,  if  you  can,"  he  says,  **an  area  of  some  hundred  acres 
overgrown  with  huge  cypress-trees, — the  trunks  of  which,  rising  to 
a  height  of  perhaps  fifty  feet  before  they  send  off  a  branch,  spring 
from  the  midst  of  the  c\irk  muddy  waters.  Their  broad  tops, 
placed  close  together  wit'i  interlaced  branches,  seem  intent  on  sep- 
arating the  heavens  from  the  earth.  Beneath  their  dark  canopy 
scarcely  a  stray  sunbeam  ever  makes  its  way;  the  mire  is  covered 
with  fallen  logs,  on  which  grow  matted  grasses  and  lichens,  and  the 
deeper  parts  with  nympheal  and  other  aquatic  plants.  The  Congo- 
snake  and  water-moccasin  glide  before  you  as  they  seek  to  elude 
your  sight;  hundreds  of  turtles  drop,  as  if  shot,  from  the  floating 
trunks  of  the  fallen  trees,  from  which  also  the  sullen  alligator 
plunges  into  the  dismal  pool.  The  air  is  pregnant  with  pestilence, 
but  alive  with  mosquitoes  and  other  insects.  The  croaking  of  the 
frogs,  joined  with  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  anhingas  and  the  screams 
of  the  herons,  forms  fit  music  for  such  a  scene.  Standing  knee-deep 
in  the  mire,  you  discharge  your  gun  at  one  of  the  numerous  birds 
that  are  brooding  high  overhead,  when  immediately  such  a  deafen- 
ing noise  arises,  that,  if  you  have  a  companion  with  you,  it  were 
quite  useless  to  speak  to  him.  Tho  frightened  birds  cross  each  other 
in  their  flight;  the  young  attempting  to  secure  themselves,  some  of 
them  lose  their  hold  and  fall  into  the  water  with  a  splash;  a  shower 
of  leaflets  whirls  downwards  from  the  tree-tops,  and  you  are  glad  to 
make  your  retreat  from  such  a  place. " 

Accompanied  by  his  wife,  Audubon  left  New  Orleans  in  January, 
1830,  proceeded  to  New  York,  and  from  thence  again  to  England, 
where  he  arrived  to  receive  a  diploma  from  the  Royal  Society,  which 
he  esteemed  as  a  great  honor  conferred  on  an  American  woodsman, 
ileturning  to  the  States  in  1831,  he  took  with  him  two  assistants,  his 
work  assuming  an  importance  not  before  dreamed  of.  The  American 
government  now  aided  him,  and  he  was  provided  with  letters  of  pro- 
tection along  the  frontiers,  which  proved  valuable  helps.  His  chief 
field  of  investigation  this  year  was  Florida, — full  of  interest  and 
novelty  to  the  ornithologist.     It  was,  comparatively,  a  new  field  and 


108  BRIEF  BIOGE^iPHIES. 

Audubon  explored  it  with  his  nsnal  enthnsiasra.  There,  along  the 
reef-bound  coast  about  Key  West,  and  among  the  islets  of  coral  that 
everywhere  rise  from  the  surface  of  the  ocean  like  gigantic  water- 
lilies,  ho  cruised  in  his  bark,  often  under  a  burning  sun,  pushing 
for  miles  over  soapy  flats,  tormented  by  myriads  of  insects,  but 
eager  to  procure  some  new  heron,  the  possession  of  which  would  at 
once  compensate  him  for  all  his  toils.  There,  in  these  native  haunts, 
he  studied  the  habits  of  the  sandpiper  and  the  cormorant,  and 
scoured  the  billows  after  the  fulmar  and  the  frigate-bird.  There, 
along  the  shore,  among  its  luxuriant  fringe  of  flowers,  plants,  and 
trees,  georgeously  luxuriant,  he  followed  after  birds  nearly  all  of 
which  were  new  to  him,  and  which  filled  him  with  boundless  delight. 

On  the  east  coast  of  Florida,  he  was  surprised  and  delighted  at 
the  wild  orange-groves  through  which  his  steps  often  led  him;  the 
rich  perfume  of  the  blossoms,  the  golden  hue  of  the  fruits  that  hung 
on  every  twig  and  lay  scattered  on  the  ground,  and  the  deep  green 
of  the  glossy  leaves  which  sometimes  half  concealed  the  golden  fruit. 
Audubon  used  sometimes  to  pass  through  orange-groves  of  this  kind 
a  fall  mile  in  extent,  quenching  his  thirst  with  the  luscious  fruit, 
an  1  delighted  at  the  rich  variety  of  life  with  which  the  woods  were 
filled. 

Having  received  letters  from  the  Secretaries  of  the  Navy  and 
Treasury  of  the  United  States  to  the  commanding  otlicers  of  the 
vessels  of  war  and  of  the  reserve  service,  directing  them  to  afford 
assistance  to  Audubon  in  his  labors,  ho  on  one  occasion  embarked 
at  St.  Augustine,  in  the  schooner  Spark,  for  St.  John's  River,  a  little 
to  tlie  north.  He  now  studied,  amid  their  haunts  along  the  coast, 
the  snowy  pelican,  cormorants,  sea-eagles,  and  blue  herons;  and 
sailed  for  one  hundred  miles  up  the  river,  between  banks  swarming 
with  alligators,  where  he  landed  and  made  familiar  acquaintance 
with  beautiful  humming-birds,  and  the  other  frequenters  of  the 
groves  and  thickets  in  that  tropical  region.  Here  is  an  ugly  phase 
of  the  naturalist's  life  : 

**  Alligators  were  extremely  abundant,  and  the  heads  of  the  fishes 
which  they  had  snapped  off  lay  floating  around  on  the  dark  waters. 
A  rifle-bullet  was  now  and  then  sent  through  the  eye  of  one  of  the 
largest,  which,  with  a  tremendous  splash  of  its  tail,  expired.  One 
morning  we  saw  a  monstrous  fellow  lying  on  the  shore.  I  was  de- 
sirous of  obtaining  him,  to  make  an  accurate  drawing  of  his  head, 
and,  accompanied  by  my  assistant  and  two  of  the  sailors,  proceeded 
cautiously  towards  him.  When  within  a  few  yards,  one  of  us  fired 
and  sent  through  his  side  an  ounce  ball,  which  tore  open  a  holc> 
large  enough  to  receive  a  man's  hand.  He  slowly  raised  his  head, 
bent  himself  upwards,  opened  his  huge  jaws,  swung  his  tail  to 
and  fro,  rose  on  his  legs,  blew  in  a  frightful  manner,  and  fell  to  the 
earth.  My  assistant  leaped  on  shore,  and,  contrary  to  my  injunc- 
t-nns,  caught  hold  of  the  animal's  tail;  when  the  alligator,  awaking 


AUDUBOX  TPIE  OPtNITHOLOGIST.  109 

from  its  trance,  with  a  last  effort  crawled  slowly  towards  the  water, 
and  plunged  heavily  into  it.  Had  he  once  thought  of  flourishing 
his  tremendous  weapon,  there  might  have  been  an  end  of  his  assail- 
ant's life;  but  he  fortunately  went  in  peace  to  his  grave,  where  we 
left  him,  as  the  water  was  too  deep.  The  same  morning  another  of 
equal  size  was  observed  swimming  directly  for  the  bows  of  our  ves-  ) 
sel,  attracted  by  the  gentle  rippling  of  the  water  there.  One  of  the  ^ 
officers,  who  had  watched  him,  fired  and  scattered  his  brains  tnrough 
the  air,  when  he  trembled  and  rolled  at  a  fearful  rate,  blowing  all 
the  while  most  furiously.  The  river  was  bloody  for  yards  round; 
but  although  the  monster  passed  close  by  the  vessel,  we  could  not 
secure  him,  and  after  a  while  he  sank  to  the  bottom." 

At  other  times,  Audubon  was  carried  out  beyond  the  coral  reef 
which  surrounds  the  Floridan  coast,  to  the  Keys,  or  islands  stand- 
in*^  out  a  little  to  sea.  These  were  covered  with  rich  vegetation,  and 
full  of  life.  The  shores  were  also  swarming  with  crabs  and  shell- 
fish of  all  kinds.  **  One  of  my  companions  thrust  himself  into  the 
tangled  groves  that  covered  all  but  the  beautiful  coral  beach  that  in 
a  continued  line  bordered  the  island,  while  others  gazed  on  the 
glov/ing  and  diversified  hues  of  the  curious  inhabitants  of  the  deep. 
i  saw  one  rush  into  the  limpid  element  to  seize  on  a  crab,  that,  with 
claws  extended  upwards,  awaited  his  opponent,  as  if  determined 
not  to  give  way.  A  loud  voice  called  him  back  to  the  land,  for 
sharks  are  as  abundant  along  those  shores  as  pebbles,  and  the  hun- 
gry prowlers  could  not  have  got  a  more  dainty  dinner."  Flamin- 
goes, ibises,  pelicans,  cormorants,  and  herons  frequent  those  islands 
in  vast  numbers,  and  turtles  and  sea-cov/s  bask  along  their  shores. 
The  party  landed  at  night  on  the  Indian  Key,  where  they  were 
kindly  welcomed;  and  v/hile  the  dance  and  the  song  v/ere  going  on 
around  him,  Audubon,  his  head  filled  with  his  pursuit,  sat  sketch- 
ing the  birds  that  he  had  seen,  and  filling  up  his  notes  respecting 
the  objects  witnessed  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Thus  it  is  that  his 
descriptions  have  so  strong  and  fresh  a  flavor  of  nature,  and  that  to 
read  them  is  like  being  present  at  the  scenes  he  so  graphically  de- 
picts. After  supper,  the  lights  were  put  out,  the  captain  returned 
to  his  vessel,  and  the  ornithologist,  with  his  young  men,  "slept  in  • 
light  swinging  hammocks  under  the  leaves  of  the  piazza."  It  was 
the  end  of  April,  when  the  nights  are  short  there  and  the  days  long; 
80,  anxious  to  turn  every  moment  to  account,  they  were  all  on  board 
again  at  three  o'clock  next  morning,  and  proceeded  outwards  to  sea. 
He  thus  briefly  describes  a  sunrise  on  one  of  those  early  April 
mornings  : 

"The  gentle  sea-breeze  glided  over  the  flowing  tide,  the  horizon 
was  clear,  and  all  was  silent  save  the  loni^  breakers  that  rushed  over 
the  distant  reefs.  As  we  were  jDroceeding  towards  some  Keys  seldom 
visited  by  man,  the  sun  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  Vv\aters  with  a 
burst  of  glory  that  flashed  on  my  soul  the  idea  of  that  Power  which 


110  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

called  into  existence  so  magnificent  an  object.  The  moon,  thin  and 
pale,  as  if  ashamed  to  show  her  feeble  light,  concealed  herself  in 
the  dim  west.  The  surface  of  the  waters  shone  in  its  tremulous 
smoothness,  and  the  deep  blue  of  the  clear  beams  was  pure  as  the 
world  that  lies  beyond  them.  The  heron  flew  heavily  towards  the 
land,  like  the  glutton  retiring  at  daybreak,  with  well-lined  paunch, 
from  the  house  of  some  wealthy  patron  of  good  cheer.  The  night- 
heron  and  the  owl,  fearful  of  day,  with  hurried  flight  sought  safety 
in  the  recesses  of  the  deepest  swamps;  while  the  gulls  and  terns, 
ever  eheerful,  gamboled  over  the  waters,  exulting  in  the  prospect  of 
abundance.  I  also  exulted  in  hope;  my  whole  frame  seemed  to  ex- 
pand; and  our  sturdy  crew  showed,  by  their  merry  faces,  that 
nature  had  charms  for  them  too.  How  much  of  beauty  and  joy  is 
lost  to  those  who  never  view  the  rising  of  the  sun,  and  of  whose 
waking  existence  the  best  half  is  nocturnal ! " 

They  landed  on  Sandy  Island,  which  lies  about  six  miles  from  the 
extreme  point  of  South  Florida,  stretching  away  down  into  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico;  they  laid  themselves  down  in  the  sand  to  sleep,  the  waters 
almost  bathing  their  feet;  the  boat  lay  at  their  side,  like  a  whale 
reposing  on  a  mud-bank.  Birds  in  myriads  fed  around  them, — 
ibises,  godwits,  herons,  fish-crows,  and  frigate  pelicans.  Having 
explored  the  island,  and  shot  a  number  of  birds,  they  proceeded 
back  to  land  through  the  tortuous  channels  among  the  reefs,  and 
were  caught  by  one  of  those  sudden  hurricanes  which  so  often  sweep 
across  the  seas.     And  here  is  Audubon's  picture  of  the  storm  : 

**  We  were  not  more  than  a  cable's  length  from  the  shore,  when, 
with  imperative  voice,  the  pilot  said  to  us  ;  *  Sit  quite  still,  gentle- 
men, for  I  should  not  like  to  lose  j'ou  overboard  just  now;  the  boat 
can't  upset,  my  word  for  that,  if  you  but  sit  still.  Here  you  have  it !  * 
Persons  who  have  never  witnessed  hurricanes  such  as  not  unfre- 
quently  desolate  the  sunny  climates  of  the  south,  can  scarcely  form 
an  idea  of  their  terrific  grandeur.  One  would  think  that,  not  con- 
tent with  laying  waste  all  on  land,  it  must  needs  sweep  the  waters 
of  the  shallows  quite  dry  to  quench  its  thirst.  No  respite  for  an 
instant  does  it  aflbrd  to  the  objects  within  the  reach  of  its  furious 
current.  Like  the  scythe  of  the  destroying  angel,  it  cuts  everything 
by  the  roots,  as  it  were,  with  the  careless  ease  of  the  experienced 
mower.  Each  of  its  revolving  sweeps  collects  a  heap  that  might  be 
likened  to  the  full  sheaf  which  the  husbandman  flings  by  his  side. 
On  it  goes,  with  a  wildness  and  fury  that  are  indescribable;  and 
when  at  last  its  frightful  blasts  have  ceased.  Nature,  weeping  and 
disconsolate,  is  left  bereaved  of  her  beauteous  ofispring.  In  some 
instances  even  a  full  century  is  required  before,  with  all  her  power- 
ful energies,  she  can  repair  her  loss.  The  planter  has  not  only  lost 
his  mansion,  his  crops,  and  his  flocks,  but  he  has  to  clear  his  lands 
anew,  covered  and  entangled  as  they  are  with  the  trunks  and 
branches  of  trees  that  are  everywhere  strewn.     The  bark,  overtaken 


AUDUBON  THE  OBNITHOLOGLST.  Ill 

l>y  the  storm,  is  cast  on  tlie  lee-shore,  and,  if  any  are  left  to  witness 
the  fatal  results,  they  are  the  •  wreckers  *  alone,  who,  with  inward 
delight,  gaze  upon  the  melancholy  spectacle.  Our  light  bark  shiv- 
ered like  a  leaf  the  instant  the  blast  reached  her  sides.  We  thought 
she  had  gone  over,  but  the  next  instant  she  was  on  the  shore.  And 
now,  in  contemplation  of  the  sublime  and  awful  storm,  I  gazed 
around  me.  The  waters  drifted  like  snow,  the  tough  mangroves  hid 
their  tops  amid  their  roots,  and  the  loud  roaring  of  the  waves  driven 
among  them  blended  with  the  howl  of  the  tempest.  It  was  not  rain 
that  fell;  the  masses  of  water  flew  in  a  horizontal  direction,  and 
when  a  part  of  my  body  was  exposed,  I  felt  as  if  a  smart  blow  had 
been  given  to  it.  But  enough ! — in  half  an  hour  it  was  over.  The 
pure  blue  sky  once  more  embellished  the  heavens,  and  although  it 
was  now  quite  night,  v/e  considered  our  situation  a  good  one.  The 
crew  and  some  of  the  party  spent  the  night  in  the  boat.  The  pilot, 
myself,  and  one  of  my  assistants,  took  to  the  heart  of  the  mangroves, 
and  having  found  high  land,  we  made  a  fire  as  well  as  we  could, 
spread  a  tarpauling,  and,  fixing  our  insect  bars  over  us,  soon  forgot 
in  sleep  the  horrors  that  had  surrounded  us." 

Audubon  returned  to  Charleston  with  a  store  of  rich  prizes  for  his 
work,  and  from  thence  proceeded  to  Philadelphia,  New  York,  and 
Boston,  greatly  enjoying  the  lavish  hospitality  of  the  last-named 
city.  Then  he  proceeded,  still  on  his  industrious  explorations,  to 
Moose  Island,  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy  (situated  between  Nova  Scotia 
and  New  Brunswick),  w^here  he  continued  to  extend  his  observa- 
tions on  altogether  different  classes  of  birds  from  those  in  the  South. 
He  afterwards  explored  New  Brunswick  and  Maine,  increasing  his 
collections,  and  returned  to  Boston,  where  he  was  a  witness  to  the 
melancholy  death  of  the  great  Spurzheim,  the  phrenologist.  He 
was  himself  seized  with  illness,  the  result  of  close  application  to  hia 
work,  but  he  soon  after  resolved  to  set  out  again  in  quest  of  fresh 
materials  for  his  pencil  and  pen. 

This  time,  it  was  the  grand,  rocky  coasts  of  Labrador,  haunted  by 
innumerable  sea-birds,  that  attracted  him.  At  Eastport,  in  Maine, 
he  chartered  a  beautiful  and  fast-sailing  schooner,  the  Bipley,  and 
set  sail,  with  several  friends,  on  his  delightful  voyage.  He  passed 
out  of  the  port  under  a  salute  of  honor  from  the  guns  of  the  fort, 
and  of  the  revenue-cutter  at  anchor  in  the  bay.  Touching  islandrj 
in  the  St.  Lawrence  Gulf^  each  haunted  by  its  peculiar  tribes  of 
birds,  a  heavy  gale  came  on,  and  the  vessel  sped  away,  under  reefed 
sails,  to  the  coast  of  Labrador.  Masses  of  drifting  ice  and  snow, 
filling  every  nook  and  cove  of  the  rugged  shores,  came  in  sight; 
they  neared  the  coast  at  the  place  called  the  * 'American  Harbor,"  and 
there  Audubon  landed.  Large  patches  of  unmelted  snow  dappled 
the  face  of  the  wild  country  ;  vegetation  had  scarcely  yet  com- 
menced; the  chilliness  of  the  air  w^as  still  penetrating ;  the  absence 
of  trees,  the'barren  aspect  of  all  around,  the  somber  mantle  of  the 


112  BPvIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

mountainous  distance  that  hung  along  the  horizon,  excited  meLin- 
choly  feelings.  But  hist!  what  is  that?  It  is  the  song  of  th«.< 
thrush, — the  first  sound  that  meets  Audubon's  ear, — and  the  delight- 
ful associations  it  called  up  at  once  reconciled  him  to  the  comparo-- 
tive  miseries  of  the  locality,  so  different  from  the  glowing  luxuri- 
ance of  Florida  and  his  favorite  Louisiana.  Robins,  hopping  about 
amid  the  blossoms  of  the  dogwood;  black-poll  warblers,  and  numer- 
ous other  birds,  some  of  them  entirely  new,  began  to  appear;  and 
soon  Audubon  was  fully  absorbed  in  his  delightful  pursuit.  The 
Bipley  sailed  further  north,  and  entered  the  harbor  of  Little  Maca- 
tina,  of  which  this  is  his  description  : 

*'It  was  the  middle  of  July:  the  weather  was  mild,  and  very 
pleasant ;  our  vessel  made  her  way,  under  a  smart  breeze,  through 
a  very  narrow  passage,  bej'ond  which  we  found  ourselves  in  a  small, 
circular  basin  of  water,  haviog  an  extent  of  seven  or  eight  acres. 
It  was  so  surrounded  by  high,  abrupt,  and  rugged  rocks,  that,  as  I 
glanced  around,  I  could  find  no  apter  comparison  for  our  situation 
than  that  of  a  nut-shell  at  the  bottom  of  a  basin.  The  dark  shad- 
ows that  overspread  the  waters,  and  the  mournful  silence  of  the 
surrounding  desert,  sombered  our  otherwise  glad  feelings  into  a 
state  of  awe.  The  scenery  was  grand  and  melancholy.  On  one  side 
hung  over  our  heads,  in  stupendous  masses,  a  rock  several  hundred 
feet  high,  the  fissures  of  which  might  to  some  have  looked  like  the 
mouths  of  a  huge,  undefined  monster.  Here  and  there  a  few  dwarf 
pines  were  stuck,  as  if  by  magic,  to  this  enormous  mass  of  granite; 
in  a  gap  of  the  cliff,  the  brood  of  a  pair  of  grim  ravens  shrunk  from 
our  sight,  and  the  gulls,  one  after  another,  began  to  wend  their  way 
overhead  towards  the  middle  of  the  quiet  pool,  as  the  furling  of  the 
sails  was  accompanied  by  the  glad  cries  of  the  sailors.  The  remark- 
able land-beacons  erected  in  that  country  to  guide  vessels  into  the 
harbor,  looked  like  so  many  figures  of  gigantic  stature,  formed  from 
the  large  blocks  that  lay  on  every  hill  around.  A  low  valley,  in 
which  meandered  a  rivulet,  opened  at  a  distance  to  the  view.  The 
remains  of  a  deserted  camp  of  seal-catchers  was  easily  traced  from 
our  deck,  and  as  easily  could  we  perceive  the  innate  tendency  of 
man  to  mischief,  in  the  charred  and  crumbling  ruins  of  the  dwarf- 
pine  forests.  But  the  harbor  was  so  safe  and  commodious,  that,  be- 
fore we  left  it  t(>find  shelter  in  another,  we  had  cause  to  be  thankful 
for  its  friendly  protection." 

Thus  coasting  along  Labrador,  peeping  into  its  bays  and  inlets. — 
through  bogs,  and  ice,  and  fishing-smacks,  pursuing  their  vocations, 
— landing  here  and  there  along  the  coast,  and  penetrating  into  the 
interior, — the  summer  of  1833  passed  joyously  and  profitably. 
Audubon  enriched  his  portfolio  with  drawings  of  new  birds,  and  hig 
note-book  with  numerous  fine  descriptions  of  Labrador  coast-life 
and  scenery.  He  describes  cod-fishing  in  glowing  colors;  devotes 
a  chapter  each  to  the  **eggers  of  Labrador,"  and  the  **  squatters  of 


AUDUBON  THE  OE,NITHOLOaiST.  113 

Labrador;"  and  enlivens  his  details  of  the  natural  history,  haunts, 
and  habits  of  birds  by  a  thousand  interesting  adventures  and  rellec- 
tions.  He  makes  you  feel  the  enthusiasm  he  felt  himself,  and  shares 
with  you  the  delight  he  experienced  in  the  course  of  his  cruisinga 
and  journeyings.  He  returned  to  the  States  in  autnmn,  touching 
at  Ne%yfoundland,  Nova  Scotia,  and  New  Brunswick,  and  thence  on 
to  Boston.  '*  One  day  only  was  spent  there,  when  the  husband  was 
in  the  arms  of  his  wife,  who,  with  equal  tenderness,  embraced  his 
beloved  child."  For  Audubon's  eldest  son  had  accompanied  him  in 
this  last-named  voyage. 

Subscribers  to  the  "Birvis  of  America  "  now  increased;  friends 
multiplied  in  all  quarters;  and  he  proceeded  again  to  England  to 
superintend  the  continued  publication  of  his  work.  There  he  ex- 
tended his  friendships  and  enlarged  his  knov/ledge,  comparing  his 
experience  with  that  of  the  greatest  authorities  in  natural  history. 
His  third  volume  of  *'  Ornithological  Biogoraphy  "  was  published  ia 
1835;  and  in  it  he  gives  a  graphic  sketch  of  an  interview  he  had  with 
Thomas  Bewick,  the  famous  wood-engraver  and  naturalist,  at  New- 
castle-on-Tyne.  This  volume  is  quite  equal  in  interest  to  the  Srst 
two  and  greatly  added  to  his  reputation  as  a  writer.  In  it  he  de- 
scribes birds  of  North  and  South,  of  Labrador  and  Florida,  of  tha 
Great  Pine  Forest  of  Pennsylvania,  and  of  the  svv^amps  along  the 
Mississippi,  with  marvelous  picturesque  power  and  fidelity.  He 
returned  to  the  States  in  1836,  again  to  pursue  his  studies;  again  he 
visited  the  western  coast  of  Florida,  and  sailed  through  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  to  New  Orleans;  then  explored  the  coast  of  Texas  to  the  Bay 
of  Galveston,  traveled  across  Texas,  and  returned  again  to  New  Or- 
leans. Crossing  the  countr}''  by  Mobile,  Pensacola,  and  Augusta, 
he  again  reached  Charleston,  and  thence  northwards  by  Washington 
to  New  York.  He  embarked  again  for  England  in  1837,  v/here  new 
honors  and  diplomas  awaited  him,  bringing  out  his  fourth  volume 
of  ''Ornithological  Biography"  at  the  end  of  183S.  He  was  now 
sixty-three  years  of  age,  but,  speaking  of  himself,  he  observed:  *'  'j'ho 
adventures  and  vicissitudes  which  have  fallen  to  my  lot,  instead  of 
tending  to  diminish  the  fervid  enthusiasm  of  my  nature,  have  im- 
parted a  toughness  to  my  bodily  constitution,  naturally  strong,  and 
to  my  mind,  naturally  buoyant,  an  elasticity  such  as  to  assure 
me  that,  though  somewhat  old,  and  considerably  denuded  in  the 
frontal  region,  I  could  yet  perform  on  foot  a  journey  of  any  length, 
were  I  sure  that  I  should  thereby  add  materially  to  our  knowledge 
of  the  ever-interesting  creatures  which  have  for  so  long  a  time  occu- 
pied my  thoughts  by  day,  and  filled  my  dreams  with  pleasant  im- 
ages." In  the  following  year,  1839,  he  published  his  fifth  and  last 
volume,  and  was  then  as  full  of  hope  and  life  as  ever.  His  only  re- 
gret, in  parting  with  his  readers,  was  that  he  could  not  transfer  to 
them  the  whole  of  the  practical  knowledge  which  he  had  acquired 
during  so  many  years  of  enthusiastic  devotion  to  the  study  of  nature. 


114  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

"Amid  the  tall  grass,"  said  he,  *•  of  the  far-extended  prairies  of  the 
West,  in  the  solemn  gusts  of  the  North,  on  the  heights  of  the  mid- 
land mountains,  by  the  shores  of  the  boundless  ocean,  and  on  the 
bosom  of  the  vast  lakes  and  magnificent  rivers,  have  I  sought  to 
search  out  the  things  which  have  been  hidden  since  the  creation  of 
this  wondrous  world,  or  seen  only  by  the  naked  Indian,  who  has,  for 
"unknown  ages,  dwelt  in  the  gorgeous  but  melancholy  wilderness. 
Who  is  the  stranger  to  my  own  dear  country  that  can  form  an  ade- 
quate conception  of  its  primeval  woods, — of  the  glory  of  those 
columnar  trunks  that  for  centuries  have  waved  in  the  breeze  and 
resisted  the  shock  of  the  tempest, — of  the  vast  bays  of  our  Atlantic 
coasts,  replenished  by  thousands  of  streams,  differing  in  magnitude 
as  differ  the  stars  that  sparkle  in  the  expanse  of  the  pure  heavens, — 
of  the  density  of  aspect  in  our  Western  plains,  our  sandy  Southern 
shores,  interspersed  with  reedy  swamps,  and  the  cliffs  that  protect 
our  Eastern  coasts,— of  the  rapid  currents  of  the  Mexican  Gulf,  and 
the  rushing  tide-streams  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy, — of  our  ocean  lakes, 
our  mighty  rivers,  our  thundering  cataracts,  our  majestic  mountains, 
rearing  their  snowj-  heads  into  the  calmest  regions  of  the  clear  cold 
sky  ?  Would  that  I  could  delineate  the  varied  features  of  that  loved 
land!" 

As  he  lived,  so  he  died,  full  of  love  for  nature.  He  went  on  ob- 
serving, comparing,  and  noting  down  his  experience,  to  the  last. 
On  the  27th  of  January,  1851,  at  his  home  in  New  York,  at  the  ad- 
vanced age  of  seventy-six,  **the  American  woodsman,"  to  use  his 
own  words  in  one  of  his  volumes,  "wrapped  himself  in  his  blanket, 
closed  his  eyes,  tind  fell  asleep. " 


WILLIAM     MACGILLIVRAY. 


ENGLAND  has  as  yet  produced  no  naturalist  so  distinguish ed 
as  Audubon  in  his  particular  department  of  science.  Wilson, 
the  Paisley  weaver,  published  an  admirable  work  on  the  birds 
of  America,  and,  having  settled  in  that  country,  he  came  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  American  rather  than  as  a  British  writer.  Macgilli- 
vray,  perhaps,  stands  at  the  head  of  English  writers  on  British  birds. 
His  history  is  similar  to  that  of  many  other  ardent  devotees  of  sci- 
ence and  art.  His  early  life  was  a  long  and  arduous  struggle  with 
diificulties,  poverty,  and  neglect;  and  it  was  only  towards  the  close 
of  his  career,  when  he  had  completed  the  last  volume  of  his  admir- 
able work,  that  he  saw  the  clouds  which  had  obscured  his  early 
fortunes  clearing  away  and  revealing  the  bright  sky  and  sunshine 
beyond, — but,  alas  !  the  success  came  too  late:  his  constitution  had 
given  way  in  the  ardor  of  the  pursuit,  and  the  self-devoted  man  of 
science  sank  lamented  into  an  early  grave. 

William  Macgillivray  was  born  at  Aberdeen,  the  son  of  compara- 
tively poor  parents,  who  nevertheless  found  the  means  of  sending 
him  to  the  University  of  his  native  town,  in  which  he  took  the  de- 
gree of  Master  of  Arts.  It  was  his  intention  to  take  out  a  medical 
degree,  and  he  served  an  apprenticeship  to  a  physician  with  this 
view;  but  his  means  were  too  limited,  and  his  love  of  natural  history 
too  ardent,  to  allow  him  to  follow  the  profession  as  a  means  of  sup- 
port. He  accordingly  sought  for  a  situation  which  should  at  the 
same  time  enable  him  to  subsist  and  to  pursue  his  favorite  pursuit. 

Such  a  situation  presented  itself  in  1823,  when  he  accepted  the 
appointment  of  assistant  and  secretary  to  the  Eegius  Professor  of 
Natural  History,  and  Keeper  of  the  Museum,  of  the  Edinburgh 
University.  The  collection  of  natural  history  at  that  place  is  one 
of  peculiar  excellence,  and  he  was  enabled  to  pursue  his  studies 
there  with  increased  zest  and  profit;— not,  however,  as  regarded  his 
purse,  for  the  office  was  by  no  means  lucrative;  but,  having  the 
charge  of  this  fine  collection,  he  was  enabled  to  devote  hid  time  ex- 

116 


116  BBIEF  BIOGRAPHIEa 

clusively  to  the  study  of  scientific  ornithology  dnring  the  "winter, 
v/hilst  during  the  summer  vacation  he  made  long  excursions  in  the 
country  in  order  to  investigate  and  record  the  habits  of  British 
birds.  He  was  afterwards  appointed  Conservator  to  the  Museum  of 
the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons  at  Edinburgh,  where  we  have  often 
seen  him  diligently  poring  over,  dissecting,  and  preparing  the 
specimens  which,  from  time  to  time,  were  added  to  that  line  collec- 
tion. It  was  while  officiating  in  the  latter  capacity  that  he  wrote  the 
first  three  volumes  of  his  elaborate  work.  His  spare  time  w^as  also 
occupied  in  the  preparation  of  numerous  other  works  on  natural 
history,  some  of  them  of  standard  excellence;  by  which  he  was  en- 
abled to  eke  out  the  means  of  comfortable  subsistence. 

Mr.  Macgillivray  was  a  man  of  indefatigable  industry,  of  singular 
order  and  method  in  his  habits,  a  strict  economist  of  time,  every 
moment  of  which  he  turned  to  useful  account.  Although  he  studif  d 
and  wrote  upon  many  subjects,— zoology,  geology,  botany,  mollusca, 
physiology,  agriculture,  the  feeding  of  cattle,  soils  and  subsoils, — 
ornithology  was  always  his  favorite  pursuit.  He  accompanied  Audu- 
bon in  most  of  his  ornithological  rambles  in  Scotland,  and  doubt- 
less imbibed  some  portion  of  the  ardent  enthusiasm  with  which  the 
American  literally  burned.  Mr.  Macgillivray  wrote  the  descriptions 
of  the  species,  and  of  the  alimentary  and  respiratory  organs,  for 
Audubon's  work.  His  own  "British  Birds"  reminds  us  in  many 
}>arts  of  the  enthusiasm  of  Audubon,  and  of  the  grocen  of  that 
writer's  style.  Like  him,  Macgillivray  used  to  watch  the  birds  of 
which  he  was  in  search  by  night  and  day.  "Wrapped  in  his  plaid, 
lie  would  lie  down  upon  the  open  moor  or  on  the  hill-side,  waiting 
the  approach  of  morning  to  see  the  feathered  tribes  start  up  and 
meet  "the  sun,  to  dart  after  their  prey,  or  to  feed  their  impatient 
brood.  We  remember  one  such  night  spent  by  him  on  the  side  of 
the  Lammermoor  hills,  described  in  one  of  his  early  works,  which 
is  full  of  descriptive  beauty,  as  well  as  of  sound  information  upon 
the  subject  in  hand.  There  is  another  similar  description  of  a  night 
spent  by  him  among  the  mountains  of  Braemar.  He  had  been  in 
search  of  the  gray  ptarmigan,  whose  haunts  and  habits  he  was  en- 
gaged in  studying  at  the  time,  and  had  traced  the  river  Dee  far  up 
to  its  sources  among  the  hills,  where  all  traces  of  the  stream  became 
lost:  clouds  began  to  gather;  nevertheless  he  pressed  on  towards  the 
hill-top,  until  at  length  he  found  himself  on  the  summit  of  a  mag- 
nificent precipice,  several  hundred  feet  high,  and  at  least  half  a  mile 
in  length.  "The  scene,'*  he  says,  "that  now  presented  itself  to  my 
view  was  the  most  splendid  that  I  had  then  seen.  All  around  rose 
mountains  beyond  mountains,  whose  granite  ridges,  rugged  and 
tempest-beaten,  furrowed  by  deep  ravines  worn  by  the  torrents, 
gradually  became  dimmer  as  they  receded,  until  at  length  on  the 
verge  of  the  horizon  they  were  blended  with  the  clouds  or  stood 
abrupt  against  the  clear  sky.     A  solemn  stillness  pervaded  all 


WILLIAM  MACGILLIYRAY.  117 

nature;  no  living  creature  was  to  be  seen:  the  dusky  wreaths  of 
vapor  rolled  majestically  over  the  dark  valleys,  and  clung  to  the 
craggy  summits  of  the  everlasting  hills.  A  melancholy,  pleasing, 
iu  comprehensible  feeling  creeps  over  the  soul  when  the  lone  wan- 
derer contemplates  the  vast,  the  solemn,  the  solitary  scene,  over 
which  savage  grandeur  and  sterility  preside. 

"The  summits  of  the  loftier  mountains,  Cairngorm  on  the  one 
hand,  Ben-na-muic-dui  and  Benvotran  on  the  other,  and  Loch-na-gar 
on  the  south,  were  covered  with  mist;  but  the  clouds  had  rolled 
westward  from  Ben-na-buird,  on  which  I  stood,  leaving  its  summit 
entirely  free.  The  beams  of  the  setting  sun  burst  in  masses  of  light 
here  and  there  through  the  openings  in  the  clouds,  which  exhibited 
a  hundred  varying  shades.  There,  over  the  ridges  of  yon  brown 
and  torrent-worn  mountain,  hangs  a  vast  mass  of  livid  vapor,  gor- 
geously glowing  with  deep  crimson  along  all  its  lower-fringed 
margin.  Here  the  white  shroud  that  clings  to  the  peaked  summits 
assumes  on  its  western  side  a  delicate  hue,  like  that  of  the  petals  of 
the  pale-red  rose.  Far  away  to  the  north  glooms  a  murky  cloud,  in 
which  the  spirits  of  the  storm  are  mustering  their  strength,  and  pre- 
paring the  forked  lightnings,  which  at  midnight  they  will  fling  over 
the  valley  of  the  Spey." 

The  traveler,  seeing  night  coming  on,  struck  into  a  corry,  down 
which  a  small  mountixin  streamlet  rushed;  and  having  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  slope,  he  began  to  run,  starting  the  ptarmigans  from 
their  seats  and  the  does  from  their  lair.  It  became  quite  dark;  still 
he  went  on  walking  for  two  hours,  but  all  traces  of  the  path  became 
lost,  and  he  groped  his  way  amid  blocks  of  granite,  ten  miles  at 
least  from  any  human  habitation,  and  •*  with  no  better  cheer  in  my 
wallet, "  he  says,  "than  a  quarter  of  a  cake  of  barley  and  a  few  crumbs 
of  cheese,  which  a  shepherd  had  given  me.  Before  I  resolved  to  halt 
for  the  night,  I  had,  unfortunately,  jDroceeded  so  far  up  the  glen 
that  I  had  left  behind  me  the  region  of  heath,  so  that  I  could  not 
procure  enough  for  a  bed.  Pulling  some  grass  and  moss,  however, 
I  spread  it  in  a  sheltered  place,  and  after  some  time  succeeded  in 
falling  into  a  sort  of  slumber.  About  midnight  I  looked  up  on  the 
moon  and  stars  that  were  at  times  covered  by  the  masses  of  vapor 
that  rolled  along  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  which,  with  their 
tremendous  precipices,  completely  surrounded  the  hollow  in  which 
I  cowered,  like  a  ptarmigan  in  the  hill-corry.  Behind  me,  in  the 
west,  and  at  the  head  of  the  glen,  was  a  lofty  mass  enveloj)ed  in 
clouds;  on  the  right  a  pyramidal  rock,  and  beside  it  a  peak  of  less 
elevation;  on  the  left  a  ridge  from  the  great  mountain,  terminating 
below  in  a  dark  conical  prominence;  and  straight  before  me,  in  the 
east,  at  the  distance  apparently  of  a  mile,  another  vast  mass.  Find- 
ing myself  cold,  although  the  weather  was  mild,  I  got  up  and  made 
me  a  couch  of  larger  stones,  grass,  and  a  little  short  heath;  unloosed 
my  pack,  covered  one  of  my  extremities  with  a  nightcap,  and  thrust 


118  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

a  pair  of  dry  stockings  on  the  other,  ate  a  portion  of  my  scanty  store, 
drank  two  or  three  glasses  of  water  from  a  neighboring  rill,  placed 
myself  in  an  easy  posture,  and  fell  asleep.  About  sunrise  I  awoke, 
fresh,  but  feeble;  ascended  the  glen;  passed  through  a  magnificent 
corry,  composed  of  vast  rooks  of  granite;  ascended  the  steep  with 
great  difficulty,  and  at  length  .gained  the  summit  of  the  mountain, 
which  was  covered  with  light  gray  mist  that  rolled  rapidly  along 
the  ridges.  As  the  clouds  cleared  away  at  intervals,  and  the  sun 
shone  upon  the  scene,  I  obtained  a  view  of  the  glen  in  which  I  had 
passed  the  night,  the  corry,  the  opposite  hills,  and  a  blue  lake  before 
me.  The  stream  which  I  had  followed  I  traced  to  two  large  foun- 
tains, from  each  of  which  I  took  a  glassful,  which  I  quaffed  to  the 
health  of  my  best  friends. 

*•  Descending  from  this  summit,  I  wandered  over  a  high  moor, 
came  upon  the  brink  of  rocks  that  bounded  a  deep  valley,  in  which 
was  a  black  lake;  proceeded  over  the  unknown  region  of  alternate 
bogs  and  cra^^s;  raised  several  flocks  of  gray  ptarmigans,  and,  at 
length,  by  following  a  ravine,  entered  one  of  the  valleys  of  the  Spey, 
near  the  mouth  of  which  I  saw  a  water-ouzel.  It  was  not  until  noon 
that  I  reached  a  hut,  in  which  I  procured  some  milk.  In  the  even- 
ing, at  Kingussie,  I  examined  the  ample  store  of  plants  that  I  had 
collected  in  crossing  the  Grampians,  and  refreshed  myself  with  a 
long  sleep  in  a  more  comfortable  bed  than  one  of  the  granite  slabs 
with  a  little  grass  and  heather  spread  over  them." 

Macgillivray's  description  of  the  golden  eagle  of  the  highlands, 
in  its  eloquence,  reminds  one  of  the  splendid  descriptions  of  his 
friend  Audubon.     We  can  only  give  a  few  brief  extracts. 

"The  golden  eagle  is  not  seen  to  advantage  in  the  menagerie  of  a 
zoological  society,  nor  when  fettered  on  the  smooth  lawn  of  an  aris- 
tocratic mansion,  or  perched  on  the  rockwork  of  a  nursery-garden  ; 
nor  can  his  habits  be  well  described  by  a  cockney  ornithologist, 
whose  proper  province  it  is  to  concoct  systems,  *  work  out'  analo- 
gies, and  give  names  to  skins  that  have  come  from  foreign  lands 
carefully  packed  in  boxes  lined  with  tin.  Far  away  among  the 
brown  hills  of  Albyn  is  thy  dwelling-place,  chief  of  the  rocky  glen  ! 
On  the  crumbling  crag  of  red  granite — that  tower  of  the  fissured 
precipices  of  Loch-na-gar — thou  hast  reposed  in  safety.  The  croak 
of  the  raven  has  broken  thy  slumbers,  and  thou  gatherest  up  thy 
huge  wings,  smoothest  thy  feathers  on  thy  sides,  and  preparest  to 
launch  into  the  aerial  ocean.  ^  Bird  of  the  desert,  solitary  though 
thou  art,  and  hateful  to  the  sight  of  many  of  thy  fellow-creatures, 
thine  must  be  a  happy  life  !  No  lord  hast  thou  to  bend  thy  stub- 
born soul  to  his  will,  no  cares  corrode  thy  heart ;  seldom  does  fear 
chill  thy  free  spirit,  for  the  windy  tempest  and  the  thick  sleet  can- 
not injure  thee,  and  the  lightnings  may  flash  around  thee,  and  the 
thunders  shake  the  everlasting  hills,  without  rousing  thee  from  thy 
dreamy  repose. 


WILLIAM  MACGILLIVRAT.  119 

**See  how  the  sunshine  brightens  the  yellow  tint  of  his  head  and 
neck,  until  it  shines  almost  like  gold !  There  he  stands,  nearly 
erect,  with  his  tail  depressed,  his  large  wings  half  raised  by  his 
side,  his  neck  stretched  out,  and  his  eye  glistening  as  he  glances 
around.  Like  other  robbers  of  the  desert,  he  has  a  noble  aspect,  an 
imperative  mien,  a  look  of  proud  defiance;  but  his  nobility  has  a 
dash  of  churlishness,  and  his  falconship  a  vulturine  tinge.  Still  he 
is  a  noble  bird,  powerful,  independent,  proud,  and  ferocious  ;  re- 
gardless of  the  weal  or  woe  of  others,  and  intent  solely  on  the  grat- 
ification of  his  own  appetite;  without  generosity,  without  honor; 
bold  against  the  defenseless,  but  ever  ready  to  sneak  from  danger. 
Such  is  his  nobility,  about  which  men  have  so  raved.  Suddenly  he 
raises  his  wings,  for  he  has  heard  the  whistle  of  the  shepherd  in  the 
corry;  and  bending  forward,  he  springs  into  the  air.  O  that  this 
pencil  of  mine  were  a  musket  charged  with  buckshot,!  Hardly  do 
those  vigorous  flaps  serve  at  first  to  prevent  his  descent;  but  now, 
curving  upwards,  he  glides  majestically  along.  As  he  passes  the 
corner  of  that  buttressed  and  battlemented  crag,  forth  rush  two 
ravens  from  their  nest,  croaking  fiercely.  While  one  flies  above  him 
the  other  steals  beneath,  and  they  essay  to  strike  him,  but  dare  not, 
for  they  have  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  power  of  his  grasp  ; 
and  after  following  him  a  little  way  they  return  to  their  home,  vainly 
exulting  in  the  thought  of  having  driven  him  from  their  neighbor- 
hood. Bent  on  a  far  journey,  he  advances  in  a  direct  course,  flap- 
ping his  great  wings  at  regular  intervals,  then  shooting  along  with- 
out seeming  to  move  them. 

*'  Over  the  moors  he  sweeps,  at  the  height  of  two  or  three  hundred 
feet,  bending  his  course  to  either  side,  his  wings  wide  spread,  his 
neck  and  feet  retracted,  now  beating  the  air,  and  again  sailing 
smoothly  along.  Suddenly  he  stops,  poises  himself  for  a  moment, 
but  recovers  himself  without  reaching  the  ground.  The  objects  of 
his  regards,  a  golden  plover,  which  he  had  espied  on  her  nest,  has 
eluded  him,  and  he  cares  not  to  pursue  it.  Now  he  ascends  a  little, 
wheels  in  short  curves, — presently  rushes  down  headlong, — assumes 
the  horizontal  position, — when  close  to  the  ground,  prevents  his 
being  dashed  against  it  by  expanding  his  wings  and  tail, — thrusts 
forth  his  talons,  and,  grasping  a  poor  terrified  ptarmigan  that  sits 
cowering  among  the  gray  lichen,  squeezes  it  to  death,  raises  his 
head  exultingly,  emits  a  clear,  shrill  cry,  and,  springing  from  the 
ground,  pursues  his  journey. 

**In  passing  a  tali  cliff  that  overhangs  a  small  lake,  he  is  assailed 
by  a  fierce  peregrine  falcon,  which  darts  and  plunges  at  him  as  if 
determined  to  deprive  him  of  his  booty,  or  drive  him  headlong  to 
the  ground.  This  proves  a  more  dangerous  foe  than  the  raven,  and 
the  eagle  screams,  yelps,  and  throws  himself  into  postures  of  defi- 
ance; but  at  length  the  hawk,  seeing  the  tyrant  is  not  bent  on  plun- 
dering his  nest,  leaves  him  to  pursue  his  course  unmolested.     Over 


120  BKIEF  BIOGBAPHIE55. 

woods  and  green  fields  and  scattered  hamlets  speeds  the  eagle;  and 
now  he  enters  the  long  valley  of  the  Dee,  near  the  upper  end  c>f 
which  is  dimly  seen  through  the  thin  gray  mist  the  rock  of  his  nest. 
About  a  mile  from  it  he  meets  his  mate,  who  has  been  abroad  on  a 
similar  errand,  and  is  returning  with  a  white  hare  in  her  talons. 
They  congratulate  each  other  with  loud  yelping  cries,  which  rouse 
the  drowsy  shepherd  on  the  strath  below,  who,  mindful  of  the  lambs 
carried  o'i'  in  spring-time,  sends  after  them  his  malediction.  Now 
they  reach  their  nest,  and  are  greeted  by  their  young  with  loud 
clamor." 

His  descriptions  of  the  haunts  of  the  wild  birds  of  the  North  are 
full  of  picturesque  beauty.  Those  of  the  grouse,  the  ptarmigan,  the 
merlin,  are  full  of  memorable  pictures,  and  here  is  a  brief  sketch  of 
the  haunts  of  the  common  snipe,  which  recalls  many  delightful 
associations.  "Beautiful  are  those  green  woods  that  hang  upon 
the  craggy  sides  of  the  fern-clad  hills,  where  the  heath-fowl  threads 
its  way  among  the  tufts  of  brown  heath,  and  the  cuckoo  sings  his 
ever-pleasing  notes  as  he  balances  him?elf  on  the  gray  stone,  vibrat- 
ing his  fan-like  tail.  Now  I  listen  to  the  simple  song  of  the  moun- 
tain blackbird,  warbled  by  the  quiet  lake  that  spreads  its  glittering 
bosom  to  the  sun,  winding  far  away  among  the  mountains,  amid 
whose  rocky  glens  wander  the  wild  deer,  tossing  their  an  tiered 
heads  on  high  as  they  snuff  the  breeze  tainted  with  the  odor  of  the 
slow-paced  shepherd  and  his  faithful  dog.  In  that  recess,  formed 
by  two  moss-clad  slabs  of  mica-slate,  the  lively  wren  jerks  up  its 
little  tail,  and  chits  its  merry  note,  as  it  recalls  its  straggling  young 
ones  that  have  wandered  among  the  bushes.  From  the  sedgy  slope, 
sprinkled  with  white  cotton-grass,  comes  the  shrill  cry  of  the  solitary 
curlew;  and  there,  high  over  the  heath,  wings  his  meandering  way 
the  joyous  snipe,  giddy  with  excess  of  unalloyed  happiness. 

"There  another  has  sprung  from  among  the  yellow-flowered 
marigolds  that  profusely  cover  the  marsh,  tjpwards  slantingly,  on 
rapidly  vibrating  wings,  he  shoots,  uttering  the  while  his  shrill, 
two-noted  cry.  Tissick,  tissick,  quoth  the  snipe,  as  he  leaves  the 
bog.  Now  in  silence  he  wends  his  way,  until  at  length,  having 
reached  the  height  of  perhaps  a  thousand  feet,  he  zigzags  along, 
emitting  a  louder  and  shriller  cry  of  zoo-zee,  zoo-zee,  zoo-zee;  which 
over,  varying  his  action,  he  descends  on  quivering  pinions,  curving 
towards  the  earth  with  surprising  speed,  while  from  the  rapid  beats 
of  his  wing  the  tremulous  air  gives  to  the  ear  what  at  first  seems 
the  voice  of  distant  thunder.  This  noise  some  have  likened  to  the 
bleating  of  a  goat  at  a  distance  on  the  hill-side,  and  thus  have  named 
our  bird  the  Air-goat  and  Air-bleater." 

In  his  latter  volumes,  the  naturalist  gives  many  admirable  de- 
scriptions of  the  haunts  of  sea-birds  along  the  rock-bound  shores  of 
his  native  Highlands.  He  loves  to  paint  the  coast  of  the  lonely 
Hebrides,  where  he  often  resorted  in  the  summer  months  to  watch 


WILLL4M  MAOGILLIVRAY.  121 

find  study  the  divers  and  plungers  of  tlie  sea.  Here,  for  instance, 
is  a  [)ictiire  of  the  gray  heron  on  a  Highland  coast : 

"The  cold  blasts  of  the  north  sweep  along  the  ruffled  surface  of  the 
lake,  over  whose  deep  waters  frown  the  rugged  crags  of  rusty  gneiss, 
having  their  crevices  sprinkled  with  tufts  of  withered  herbage,  and 
their  summits  covered  with  stunted  birches  and  alders.  The  deso- 
late hills  around  are  partially  covered  with  snow,  the  pastures  are 
drenched  with  the  rains,  the  brown  torrents  scum  the  heathy  slopes, 
and  the  little  birds  have  long  ceased  to  enliven  those  deserted  thick- 
ets with  their  gentle  songs.  Margining  the  waters,  extends  a  long 
muddy  beach,  over  which  are  scattered  blocks  of  stone,  partially 
clothed  with  dusky  and  olivaceous  weeds.  Here  and  there  a  gull 
floats  buoyantly  in  the  shallows;  some  oyster-catchers  repose  on  a 
gravel-bank,  their  bills  buried  among  their  plumage;  and  there,  on 
that  low  shelf,  is  perched  a  solitary  heron,  like  a  monument  of  list- 
less indolence,— a  bird  petrified  in  its  slumber.  At  another  time, 
when  the  tide  has  retired,  you  may  find  it  wandering,  with  slow  and 
careful  tread,  among  the  little  pools,  and  by  the  sides  of  the  rocks, 
in  search  of  small  fishes  and  crabs;  but,  unless  you  are  bent  on 
watching  it,  you  will  find  more  amusement  in  observing  the  lively 
tringas  and  turnstones,  ever  in  rapid  motion ;  for  the  heron  is  a  dall 
and  lazy  bird,  or  at  least  he  seems  to  be  such;  and  even  if  you  draw 
near,  he  rises  in  so  listless  a  manner,  that  you  think  it  a  hard  task 
for  him  to  unfold  his  large  wings  and  heavily  beat  the  air,  until  h.3 
has  fairly  raised  himself.  Bat  now  he  floats  away,  lightly,  though 
with  slow  flapping,  screams  his  harsh  cry,  and  tries  to  soar  to  some 
distant  place,  where  he  may  remain  unmolested  by  the  prying 
naturalist. 

"Perhaps  you  may  wonder  at  finding  him  in  so  cold  and  desolate 
a  place  as  this  dull  sea-creek  on  the  most  northern  coast  of  Scot- 
land, and  that,  too,  in  the  very  midst  of  v/inter;  but  the  heron  courts 
not  society,  and  seems  to  care  as  little  as  any  one  for  the  cold.  W-ere 
you  to  betake  yourself  to  the  other  extremity  of  the  island,  where 
the  scenery  is  of  a  very  different  character,  and  the  inlands  swarm 
with  ducks  and  gulls  there,  too,  you  would  find  the  heron,  unaltered 
in  manners,  slow  in  his  movements,  careful  and  patient,  ever  hungry 
and  ever  lean;  for  even  when  in  best  condition,  he  never  attains  the 
plumpness  that  gives  you  the  idea  of  a  comfortable  existence." 

In  1841  Mr.  Macgillivray  was  appointed  by  the  Crown  to  the  Pro- 
fessorship of  Natural  History  in  Marischal  College,  Aberdeen,  solely 
on  account  of  his  acknowledged  merit,  for  he  had  no  interest  what- 
ever; and  the  zeal,  abilitj^  and  success  v/ith  which  he  discharged 
his  duties  amply  justified  the  nomination.  He  was  an  admirable 
lecturer, — clear,  simple,  and  methodical,  laboring  to  lajj"  securelj'' 
the  foundations  of  knowledge  in  the  minds  of  his  pupils.  He  im- 
bued them  with  the  love  of  science,  and  communicated  to  them — as 
overy  successful  lecturer  cannot  fail  to  do — a  portion  of  his  own  en- 
tliasiasm. 


12a  BKIEF  BiOGiiAPHIEtS. 

In -the  autumn  of  1850  he  made  an  excursion  to  Braemar,  with  the 
intention  of  writing  an  account  of  the  natiiral  history  of  Balmoral 
(.which  was  ready  for  publication  at  the  time  of  his  death);  and  he 
afterwards  extended  his  excursion  to  the  central  region  of  the  Gram- 
pians, in  pursuit  of  the  materials  for  another  work.  The  ft\tigue 
and  exposure  which  he  underwent  on  this  occasion  seriously  affected 
his  health;  and  he  removed  to  Torquay,  in  Devon,  in  hopes  of  re- 
newed vigor.  But  he  never  rallied.  A  severe  calamity  befell  him 
while  in  Devon,  through  the  sudden  death  of  his  wife,  to  whom  he 
was  tenderly  attached.  Nevertheless,  he  went  on  steadily  with  his 
work,  which  even  his  seriously  impaired  health  would  not  permit 
him  to  interrupt.  We  can  conceive  him  in  such  a  state  to  have 
written  the  following  passage,  which  appears  in  the  preface  to  his 
last  work,  published  in  the  week  of  his  death: 

"As  the  wounded  bird  seeks  some  quiet  retreat,  where,  freed  from 
the  persecution  of  the  pitiless  fowler,  it  may  pass  the  time  of  its 
anguish  in  forgetfulness  of  the  outer  world,  so  have  I,  assailed  by 
disease,  betaken  myself  to  a  sheltered  nook,  where,  unannoyed  by 
the  piercing  blasts  of  the  North  Sea,  I  had  been  led  to  hope  that 
my  life  might  be  protracted  beyond  the  most  dangerous  season  of 
the  year.  It  is  thus  that  I  issue  from  Devonshire  the  prest-nt  volume, 
which,  however,  contains  no  observations  of  mine  made  there,  the 
scenes  of  my  labors  being  in  distant  parts  of  the  country. 

"It  is  well  that  the  observations  from  which  these  descriptions 
have  been  prepared,  were  made  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  full 
of  enthusiasm,  and  enjoyed  the  blessings  of  health,  and  freedom 
from  engrossing  public  duties  ;  for  I  am  persuaded  that  now  I 
should  be  in  some  respects  less  qualified  for  the  task, — more,  how- 
ever, from  the  failure  of  physical  than  of  mental  power.  Here,  on  the 
rocky  promontory,  I  shiver  in  the  breeze,  which,  to  my  companion, 
is  but  cool  and  bracing.  The  east  wind  ruffles  the  sea,  and  im- 
pels the  little  waves  to  the  shores  of  the  beautiful  bay,  which  pre- 
sents alternate  cliffs  of.  red  sandstone  and  beaches  of  yellow  sand, 
backed  by  undulated  heights  and  gentle  acclivities,  slowly  rising 
to  the  not  distant  horizon ;  fields  and  woods,  with  villages  and 
scattered  villas,  forming— not  wild  nor  altogether  tame — a  pleasing 
landscape,  which,  in  its  summer  and  autumnal  garniture  of  grass 
and  corn,  and  sylvan  verdure;  orchard  blossom  and  fruit,  tangled 
fencebank,  and  furze-clad  common,  will  be  beautiful  indeed  to  the 
lover  of  nature.  Then,  the  balmy  breezes  from  the  west  and  south 
will  waft  health  to  the  reviving  invalid.  At  present,  the  cold 
vernal  gales  sweep  along  the  Channel,  conveying  to  its  haven  the 
extended  fleet  of  boats  that  render  Bircham,  on  the  opposite  horn 
of  the  bay,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  southern  fishing- 
stations  of  England.  High  over  the  waters,  here  and  there,  a  soli- 
tary gull  slowly  advances  against  the  breeze,  or  shoots  athwart,  or, 
with  a  beautiful  gliding  motion  sweeps  down  the  aerial  current. 


WILLIAM  HACGILLIVICAY.  12:) 

At  tbe  entrance  to  Torquay  are  assembled  many  birds  of  the  -same 
kind,  which,  by  their  hovering  near  the  surface,  their  varied  evolu- 
tions, and  mingling  cries,  indicate  a  shoal,  probably  of  atherines 
or  sprats.  On  that  little  pyramidal  rock,  projecting  from  the 
water,  repose  two  dusky  cormorants  ;  and  far  away,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Portland  Island,  a  gannet,  well  known  by  its  peculiar  flight, 
winnows  its  exploring  way,  and  plunges  headlong  into  the  deep." 

And,  speaking  of  the  conclusion  of  his  great  work,  on  the  last 
page,  he  says  of  it  : — 

"Commenced  in  hope,  and  carried  on  with  zeal,  though  ended  in 
sorrow  and  sickness,  I  can  look  upon  my  work  without  much  ro 
gard  to  the  opinions  which  contemporary  writers  may  form  of  it, 
assured  that  what  is  useful  in  it  will  not  be  forgotten,  and  knowing 
that  already  it  has  had  a  beneficial  effect  on  many  of  the  present, 
and  will  more  powerfully  influence  the  next,  generation  of  our 
home  ornithologists.  I  had  been  led  to  think  that  I  had  occasion- 
ally been  somewhat  rude,  or  at  least  blunt,  in  my  criticisms  ;  but  I 
do  not  perceive  wherein  I  have  much  erred  in  that  respect,  and  I 
feel  no  inclination  to  apologize.  I  have  been  honest  and  sincere  in 
my  endeavors  to  promote  the  truth.  With  death,  apparently  not 
distant  before  my  eyes,  I  am  pleased  to  think  that  I  have  not  counte- 
nanced error  through  fear  or  favor  ;  neither  have  I  in  any  case 
modified  my  statements  so  as  to  endeavor  thereby  to  conceal  or 
palliate  my  faults.  Though  I  might  have  accomplished  more,  I 
am  thankiul  for  having  been  permitted  to  add  very  considerably 
to  the  knowledge  previously  obtained  of  a  very  pleasant  subject. 
If  I  have  not  very  frequently  indulged  in  reflections  on  the  power, 
wisdom,  and  goodness  of  God,  as  suggested  by  even  my  imperfect 
understanding  of  his  wonderful  works,  it  is  not  because  I  have  not 
ever  been  sensible  of  the  relation  between  the  Creator  and  his  crea- 
tures, nor  because  my  chief  enjoyment  when  wandering  among 
the  hills  and  vallej^s,  exploring  the  rugged  shores  of  the  ocean, 
or  searching  the  cultivated  fields,  has  not  been  in  a  sense  of  His 
presence.  *  To  Him  who  alone  doeth  great  wonders  '  be  all  the 
glory  and  praise.     Reader,  farewell !  " 

Mr.  Macgillivray  was  able  to  return  to  Aberdeen — to  die.  He 
expired  on  the  5th  of  Seplember,  1852,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six,  leav- 
ing a  large  family  behind  him,  for  whom  he  had  been  unable 
(through  the  slenderness  of  his  means  throughout  life)  to  make  any 
provision.  His  eldest  son,  however,  had  already  distinguished 
himself  as  a  naturalist,  having  been  emj^loyed  by  the  late  Earl  of 
Derby  to  accompany  the  expedition  sent  by  him  round  the  world; 
and  he  was  subsequently  appointed  Government  Naturalist  on 
board  the  Rattlesnake,  to  complete  the  exploration  of  the  Eastern 
Archipelago  and  Southern  Pacific.  We  may,  therefore,  expect  to 
have  considerable  accessions  to  our  knowledge  of  the  natural  his- 
tory of  these  interesting  regions  from  his  already  experienced  pen. 


JOHN  STERLING. 


A  paxd-like,  spirit,  beautUul  and  swift 


JOHN  STERLING  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those  beautiful 
natures  that  carry  about  with  them  a  charm  to  captivate  all  be- 
holders. They  are  full  of  young  genius,  fall  of  promise,  full  of 
enthusiasm;  and  seem  to  be  on  the  high  road  towards  honor,  fam(\ 
and  glory,  when  suddenly  their  career  is  cut  short  by  death,  and 
their  friends  are  left  lamenting.  Just  such  another  character  was 
Charles  Pemberton, — a  man  of  somewhat  kindred  genius  to  Sterling, 
— who  had  done  comparatively  little,  but  had  excited  great  hopes 
among  a  circle  of  ardent  friends  and  admirers,  whom  he  had  riveted 
to  him  by  certain  indefinable  personal  and  intellectual  charmn; 
when  he  was  stricken  down  by  death,  and,  like  Sterling,  left  only  a 
few  scattered  "Remains"  to  be  judged  by.  Poor  Keats,  too,  died 
just  as  he  had  given  to  the  world  the  promise  of  one  of  its  greatest 
men,  but  not  before  he  had  sent  down  into  the  future  str  tins  of  un- 
dyintr  poesy.  Shelley,  too  !  What  a  loss  was  there  !  What  glorious 
promise  of  a  man  did  he  not  offer  !  Bat  the  names  of  the  great,  who 
have  died  in  youth,'  are  more  than  can  be  told:  as  Shelley  sang, 

The  good  die  first. 
While  they  whose  hearts  ai*e  dry  as  summer's  dust 
Burn  to  their  socket. 

But  what  of  Sterling  ?  What  did  he  do  ?  What  has  he  left  as  a 
legacy  to  us  bywhich  to  know  and  remember  him  ? 

We  have  now  two  lives  of  him,  written  by  two  of  his  many  inti- 
mate friends  and  devoted  admirers, — Archdeacon  Hare  and  Thomas 
Carlyle.  That  two  such  men  should  have  written  a  life  of  Sterling 
would  argue  of  itself  something  in  his  character  and  career  more 
than  ordinary.  Archdeacon  Hare's  came  first:  his  work  was  in  two 
volumes,  containing  the  collected  Essays  and  Tales  of  John  Stc^rling, 
with  a  memoir  of  his  life.     On  reading  that  life,  interesting  and 

134 


JOHN  STEALING.  125 

beautiful  though  it  was,  one  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  a 
good  deal  remaining  untold,  and  that  the  tone  adopted  in  speaking 
of  John  Sterling's  opinions  on  religious  subjects  was  unnecessarily 
apologetic.  It  seems  to  has^e  been  this  circumstance  which  has 
drawn  forth  the  life  by  Carlyle.  *' Archdeacon  Hare,"  says  Carlyle, 
"takes  up  Sterling  as  a  clergyman  merely.  Sterling,  I  find,  was  a 
curate  for  exactly  eight  months.  But  he  was  a  man,  and  had  rela- 
tion to  the  universe  for  eight  and  thirty  years;  and  it  is  in  this  latter 
character,  to  which  all  the  others  were  but  features  and  transitory 
hues,  that  we  wish  to  know  him.  His  battle  with  hereditary  church- 
formulas  was  severe;  but  it  was  by  no  means  his  one  battle  with 
things  inherited,  nor  indeed  his  chief  battle;  neither,  according  to 
my  observation  of  what  it  was,  is  it  successfully  delineated  or  sum- 
med up  in  this  book."  And  so  Carlyle  determined  to  give  his  por- 
traiture of  his  deceased  friend. 

Sterling  was  born  at  Kaimes  Castle,  in  the  island  of  Bute,  Scotland, 
in  1806,  of  Irish  parents,  who  were  both  of  Scotch  extraction.  The 
mother  v^^as  somewhat  proud  of  being  a  descendant  of  Wallace,  tha 
Scottish  hero.  Edward  Sterling,  the  father,  pursued  farming;  he ' 
had  been  a  militia  captain,  and  took  to  it  as  a  calling,  by  way  of 
helping  out  the  family  means.  From  Bute  he  removed  to  Llan- 
blethian,  in  Glamorganshire,  in  1809.  Here  the  young  Sterling's 
childhood  was  nurtured  amid  forms  of  wild  and  romantic  beauty. 
But  his  father,  the  captain,  was  an  ardent-minded,  active  man,  and 
could  ill  confine  himself  to  the  small  details  of  Welsh  farming.  His 
thoughts  were  abroad.  He  corresponded  with  newspapers.  He 
wrote  a  pamphlet.  He  sent  letters  to  the  Times,  signed  *'Yetu3," 
which  were  afterwards  thought  worthy  of  being  collected  and  re- 
printed. The  captain  went  further.  He  left  his  farm  in  Wales,  and 
proceeded  to  Paris,  with  the  object  of  acting  as  foreign  correspond- 
ent for  the  Times  newspaper.  His  fiimily  accompanied  him  to  Paris, 
where  they  stayed  some  eight  months,  until  the  sudden  return  of 
Napoleon  from  Elba,  when  they  had  to  decamp  to  England  on  the 
instant.  Captain  Sterling  returned  to  London,  where  he  settled; 
and  before  long  became  a  very  notorious,  if  not  a  distinguished,  per- 
sonage. His  connection  with  the  Times  newspaper  grew  closer; 
until  at  length  he  became  extensively  known  as  "The  Thunderer," 
and  was  publicly  lashed  by  O'Connell  in  that  character;  Sterling,  on 
his  part,  returning  the  great  ^agitator's  compliments  with  full  in- 
terest. 

The  boy  was  schooled  in  London,  and  grew  up  as  boys  like  him  will 
grow;  he  was  quick,  clever,  cheerful,  gallant,  generous,  self-willed, 
and  rather  ditficult  to  manage.  From  a  little  letter  of  his  to  his 
mother,  which  has  been  preserved,  written  when  he  was  twelve  jesixs 
old,  it  appears  that  he  "ran  away"  from  his  home  at  Blackheath, 
to  Dover.  The  cause  was  some  slight  or  indignity  put  upon  him 
which  he  could  not  bear.    But  he  was  brought  home,  and,  like  other 


126  BBIEF  BIOGIiAPHIES. 

child's  "slights,"  it  was  soon  forgotten.  As  a  boy,  he  was  a  great 
reader  in  the  promiscuous  line;  reading  EdiD  burgh  He  views,  and 
cart-loads  of  novels.  At  sixteen  he  was  sent  to  Glasgow  University, 
where  he  lived  with  some  of  his  mother's  relations.  Then,  at  nine- 
teen, he  proceeded  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  had  for 
his  tutor  Julius  Hare,  the  archdeacon,  one  of  his  biographers. 

Though  not  an  exact  scholar.  Sterling  became  well  and  extensively 
read,  possessing  great  facilities  of  assimilation  for  all  kinds  of  mental 
diet.  His  studies  were  irregular  and  discursive,  but  extensive  and 
encyclopasdic.  At  Cambridge  he  was  brought  into  friendly  connec- 
tion with  Frederick  Maurice,  Richard  Trench,  John  Kemble,  Charles 
Buller,  Monckton  Milnes,  and  others,  who  were  afterwards  in  life 
his  fast  friends.  Sterling  was  a  frequent  and  a  brilliant  speaker  at 
the  Union  Club;  and  already  began  to  exhibit  strong  '^lladicar' 
leanings,  displaying  no  small  daring  in  his  attacks  upon  established 
ideas  and  things. 

It  was  Sterling's  intention  to  take  a  degree  in  law  at  Cambridge, 
but,  like  many  other  of  his  intentions,  it  came  to  nothing  ;  and 
after  a  two  years*  residence,  his  university  life  ended.  What  to  do 
next?    He  has  grown  into  manhood,  and  must  have  a  **  profession." 

What  is  it  to  be  ?  Is  it  to  be  the  taw,  or  the  Church  ?  or  is  he  to 
enter  the  career  of  trade,  and  make  money  in  it,  thereby  to  secure 
*' the  temporary  hallelujah  of  flunkeys."  His  " Radical "  notions 
gave  him  a  deep  aversion  to  the  pursuit  of  the  law  ;  and  as  for  the 
church,  at  that  time,  it  was  clear  that  his  leanings  were  not  that 
way.  The  true  career  for  Sterling,  in  Carlyle's  opinion,  was  Parlia- 
ment, and  it  was  possibly  with  some  such  ultimate  design  in  view 
that  Sterling  engaged  himself  as  secretary  to  a  public  association  of 
gentlemen,  got  up  for  the  purpose  of  opening  the  trade  to  India. 
But  the  association  did  not  live  long,  and  the  secretaryship  lapsed. 

One  other  course  remained  open  for  Sterling,— the  career  of  lit- 
erature,— and  he  plunged  into  it.  Joining  his  friend  Maurice,  the 
copyright  of  the  AthenaGum  (which  Silk  Buckingham  had  some  time 
before  established)  was  purchased  ;  and  there  he  printed  his  first 
literary  effusions, — crude,  imperfect,  yet  singularly  beautiful  and 
attractive  papers,  as,  for  instance,  "The  Lycian  Painter,"  contain- 
ing seeds  of  great  promise.  Yet,  as  Carlyle  observes,  **a  grand 
melancholy  is  the  prevailing  impression  they  leave  ;  partly  as  if, 
while  the  surface  was  so  blooming  and  opulent,  the  heart  of  them 
was  still  vacant,  sad  and  cold.  The  writer's  heart  is  indeed  still  too 
vacant,  except  of  beautiful  shadows  and  reflexes  and  resonances  ; 
and  is  far  from  joyful,  though  it  wears  commonly  a  smile."  He 
himself  used  afterwards  to  speak  oftbisashis  "period  of  darkness." 

The  Athenfeum  did  not  prosper  in  Sterling's  hands.  He  did  not 
understand  commercial  management,  which  is  absolutely  necessary 
for  the  success  even  of  a  literary  journal,  ^o  the  Athenseum  was 
transferred  to  other  hands,  under  which  it  throve  vigorously.     But 


JOHN  STEilLil^tG.  127 

the  Athenfieum  had  introduced  Sterling  into  the  literary  life  of 
London,  which  tended  to  confirm  him  in  his  pursuit.  Among  the 
celebrities  with  whom  he  now  had  familiar  intercourse  was  Coleridge, 
whose  home  at  Highgate  Hill  he  often  visited,  and  there  he  listened 
to  that  eloquent  talker  playing  the  magician  with  his  auditors,  — 
"a  dusky,  sublime  character,  who  sat  there  as  a  kind  of  Magus,  girt 
in  mystery  and  enigma,  whispering  strange  things,  uncertain 
whether  oracles  or  jargon."  The  influence  which  Coleridge  exer- 
cised upon  the  religious  thinking  of  his  day  was  unquestionably 
great,  dreamy  and  speculative  though  he  was  ;  but  whether  it  will 
survive,  whether  the  religious  life  of  the  world  will  be  advanced  in 
any  way  by  Coleridge's  lofty  musings,  is  matter  of  great  doubt  to 
many  ;  because,  glorious  though  the  rumbling  of  his  sonorous 
voice  was,  you  too  often  felt  that  it  died  away  in  sound,  leaving  no 
solid,  appreciable,  practicable,  intelligible  meaning  behind  it.  But 
on  this  wide  question  we  shall  not  enter.  Certain  it  was  that 
Sterling,  notwithstanding  his  '*  Kadical "  notions,  was  for  the  time 
deeply  influenced  by  his  intercourse  with  Coleridge,  and  by  what 
Carlyle  calls  his  "thrice-refined  pabulum  of  transcendental  moon- 
shine." This  sufficiently  appears  in  the  novel  of  "Arthur  Con- 
ingsby,"  which  Sterling  wrote  in  1830, — his  only  prose  book. 

About  this  time.  Sterling  deeply  interested  himself  in  the  fate  of 
some  poor  Spanish  emigres,  driven  out  of  their  own  country  by 
some  revolution  there,  and  then  vegetating  about  Somer's  Town  and 
frequently  beating  with  their  feet  the  pavement  in  Euston  Square. 
Their  chief  was  General  Torrijos,  with  whom  Sterling  had  become 
intimate,  and  in  whose  fortunes  he  took  a  warm  interest.  Torrijos 
was  zealous  in  the  cause  of  his  country  ;  he  would  effect  alandiug, 
revolutionize  and  liberalize  Spain;  but  he  wanted  money.  Sterling 
was  interested  by  the  romance  of  the  thing,  an4  he  also  warmly 
sympathized  with  the  sentiments  of  the  old  general.  He  proceeded 
to  raise  money  among  his  friends  ;  money  was  collected  ;  arms 
were  bought ;  a  ship  was  provided  by  Lieutenant  Boyd,  an  Irish- 
man; the  ship  was  in  the  Thames,  taking  in  its  armament,  when, 
lo !  the  police  suddenly  appeared  on  board,  and  the  vessel  was 
seized  and  its  stores  confiscated.  Torrijos,  Boyd,  and  some  others, 
did  afterwards  manage  to  land  in  Spain  ;  where  they  met  with  an 
exceedingly  tragical  ending. 

But  something  else  issued  from  this  Spanish  misadventure,  of 
interest  to  Sterling.  He  had  become  acquainted  with  the  Misses 
Barton,  the  daughters  of  Lieutenant-General  Barton,  of  the  Life 
Guards, — very  delightful  young  ladies.  He  seems  to  have  excited 
something  more  than  merely  friendly  feelings  in  Susannah's  bosom; 
for  when  he  went  to  take  leave  of  her,  to  e  ubark  in  the  projected 
Spanish  invasion,  a  scene  occurred  from  which  it  appeared  clear 
that  he  had  won  the  girl's  heart,  and  then  marriage  was  the  result 


128  BRIEF  BIOGRAPfflES. 

But  scarcely  was  lie  married  ere  he  fell  serionsly  ill,— so  ill  that  he 
lay  utterly  prostrate  for  weeks,  and  his  life  was  long  despaired  of.  His 
career  after  this  was  a  constant  alternation  of  health  and  illness,  ram- 
pant good  spirits  and  prostrate  feebleness.  His  lungs  were  affected, 
and  consumption  began  to  show  indications  of  its  coming.  The 
doctors,  however,  gave  hopes  of  him, — on'y  it  was  necessary  he 
should  remove  to  a  warmer  climate.  His  family  had  inherited  a 
valuable  property  in  the  West  Indies,  at  St,  Vincent,  whither  ho 
went  to  reside  in  1831,  and  remained  in  that  beautiful  island,  under 
the  hot  Kun  of  the  tropics,  for  about  fifteen  months,  returning  to 
Engl:ind  greatly  improved  in  health,  From  thence  he  went  to  Bonn, 
in  Germany,  where  he  met  with  his  old  friend  and  quondam  tutor, 
the  Rev.  Julius  Hare,  and  with  him  Sterling  had  much  serious  talk 
on  religious  matters. 

Still  under  the  influence  of  the  ColeridgeanMews  which  had  been 
working  within  him  at  St.  Vincent  and  since,"  Sterling  expressed  to 
Mr.  Hare  a  wish  to  enter  the  church  as  a  minister,  which  Mr. 
Hare  ** strongly  urged"  him  to  do,  offering  to  appoint  him  to 
his  own  curacy  at  Herstmonceux,  which  was  then  vacant.  Shortly 
after,  he  returned  to  England,  was  ordained  deacon  at  Chichester 
in  1834,  and  was  appointed  curate  immediately  after,  entering 
earnestly  on  the  duties  of  that  calling.  He  occasionally  preached 
in  the  metropolis,  and  Carlyle  described  his  appearance  on  two  of 
such  occasions: 

'•  It  was  in  some  new  college  chapel  in  Somerset  ITonse  ;  a  very 
quiet  small  place,  the  audience  student-looking  youths,  with  a  few 
elder  peoj^le,  perhaps  mostly  friends  of  the  preacher's.  The  dis- 
course, delivered  with  a  grave  sonorous  composure,  and  far  sur- 
passing in  talent  the  usual  run  of  sermons,  had  withal  an  air  of 
human  veracity,  as  I  still  recollect,  and  bespoke  dignity  and  piety 
of  mind  ;  but  gave  me  the  impression  rather  of  artistic  excellence 
than  of  unction  or  inspiration  in  that  kind.  Sterling  returned  with 
us  to  Chelsea  that  day  ;  and  in  tho  afternoon  we  went  on  the 
Thames  Putney-ward  together,  we  two  with  my  wife  ;  under  the 
sunny  skies,  on  the  quiet  water,  and  with  copious,  cheery  talk, 
the  remembrance  of  which  is  still  present  enough  to  me. 

"This  was  properly  my  only  specimen  of  Sterling's  preaching. 
Another  time,  late  in  the  same  auf.umn,  I  did  indeed  attend  him  one 
evening  to  some  church  in  the  City, — a  big  church  behind  Cheap- 
side,  *  built  by  Wren,'  as  he  carefully  informed  me  ; — but  there,  in 
my  wearied  mood,  the  chief  subject  of  reflection  was  the  almost 
total  vacancy  of  the  place,  and  how  an  eloquent  soul  was  preaching 
to  mere  lamps  and  prayer-books  ;  and  of  tho  sermon  I  retain  no 
image.  It  came  up  in  the  way  of  banter,  if  he  ever  urged  the  duty 
of  *  Church  extension,' which  already  he  very  seldom  did,  and  at 
length  never,  what  a  specimen  we  once  had  of  bright  lamps,  gilt 
2^rayer-books,  baize-lined  pews,  Wren-Built  architecture  ;  and  how. 


JOHN  STERLING.  129 

in  almosfe  all  directions,  you  might  have  fired  a  mnsket  through 
the  church,  and  hit  no  Christian  life,  A  terrible  outlook,  indeed, 
for  the  apostolic  laborer  in  the  brick-and-mortar  line  !  " 

For  reasons  which  Archdeacon  Hare  does  not  clearly  state,  but 
which  Carlyle  in  a  rather  mystical  way  indicates,  Sterling  left  his 
curacy  at  Herstmoneeux,  and  removed  to  London,  where  he  took  a 
house  at  Bayswater.  At  this  time  he  was,  in  personal  appearance, 
thin  and  careless-looking, — his  eyes  kindly,  but  restless  in  their 
glances, — his  features  animated  and  brilliant  when  talking, — and  he 
was  always  full  of  bright  speech  and  argument.  He  did  not  give 
you  the  idea  of  ill-health;  indeed,  his  life  seemed  to  be  bounding, 
and  full  of  vitality;  his  whole  being  was  usually  in  full  play; — it  was 
his  vehemence  and  rapidity  of  life  which  struck  one  on  first  seeing 
him. 

Carlyle  says,  that  he  wore  holes  in  the  outer  case  of  his  body  by 
this  restless  vitality,  which  could  not  otherwise  find  vent.  He  seems 
now  to  have  been  in  the  thick  of  doubts  and  mental  discussions, — 
probing  the  foundations  of  his  faith, — and,  it  is  to  be  suspected, 
losing  one  by  one  the  pillars  on  which  it  had  rested.  It  is  a  terrible 
'*  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,"  this  which  so  many  young  minds 
have  to  pass  through  in  these  days  of  restless  inquiry  into  all  sub- 
jects,— religious,  social,  and  political.     As  Shelley  writes, — 

Ifi  have  erred,  there  was  no  joy  in  error. 
But  pain  and  insult,  and  unrest  and  terror. 

Sterling's  views  began  to  diverge  more  and  more  from  those  for- 
merly held  by  him,  yet  this  never  interfered  with  a  single  one  of  his 
friendships.  Tolerant  and  charitable,  there  was  an  agreement  to 
differ;  and  certainly  it  is  better  for  men  to  differ  openly  and  honestly, 
than  hypocritically  to  agree  and  conform, — even  for  ^'peace's  sake.** 
And  why  should  men  quarrel  about  such  matters,  respecting  which 
no  one  man  can  have  more  positive  or  certain  loiowledge  than  any 
other  man  ?    Says  Tennyson; 

What  am  1 7 
An  Infant  crying  in  the  night: 
An  infant  crying:  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry  I 

Sterling  read  many  German  books  at  this  time,  such  as  Tholuck 
and  Schleiermacher,  from  which  he  diverged  into  Goethe  and  Jean 
Paul  Richter.  But  his  health  was  still  delicate,  and  a  residence  in 
the  south  of  France  was  determined  on. 

He  reached  .Bordeaux,  and  while  there  worked  at  various  literary 
enterprises.  Poetry  occupied  his  attention,  and  he  there  wrote  '  *  The 
Sexton's  Daughter; "  he  also  stored  up  a  number  of  notes  and  memo- 
randa respecting  Montaigne,  whose  old  country-house  he  visited, 

BIOGnAPHIES  4 


laOl  BUIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

and  these  shortly  after  appeared,  in  a  very  able  article  from  his  pen, 
in  the  London  and  Westminster  Review.  After  a  year's  stay,  he  re- 
turned to  England,  and  occupied  himself  in  writing  occasional  arti- 
cles for  Blackwood's  Magazine.  His  health  being  still  delicate,  he 
wintered  at  Madeira  in  1837;  speaking  of  it  in  one  of  his  letters,  he 
says  that,  **  as  a  temporary  refuge,  a  niche  in  an  old  ruin,  where  ono 
is  sheltered  from  the  shower,  the  place  has  great  merit."  He  con- 
tinued writing  papers  for  Blackwood,  of  which  the  best  was  "The 
Onyx  Ring."  Wilson  early  recognized  Sterling's  merit  as  a  writer, 
and  lavished  great  praise  upon  him  in  his  editorial  comments,  in- 
deed, he  seems  to  have  possessed  the  gift  of  literary  improvising  to 
a  great  extent.  He  was  a  swift  genius  :  Carlyle  likened  him  to 
"sheet-lightning."  He  had  an  incredible  facility  of  labor,  flashing 
with  most  piercing  glance  into  a  subject,  and  throwing  his  thoughts 
upon  it  together  upon  paper  with  remarkable  felicity,  brilliancy, 
and  general  excellence.  While  at  Madeira  Sterling  busied  himself 
with  reading  Goethe,  of  whom  he  gives  the  following  striking  opin- 
ion, in  many  respects  true:  "There  must,  I  tliink,  have  been  some 
prodigious  defect  in  his  mind,  to  let  him  hold  such  views  as  his 
about  women  and  some  other  things;  and  in  another  respect,  I  find 
so  much  coldness  and  hollowness  as  to  the  highest  truths,  and  feel 
80  strongly  that  the  heaven  he  looks  up  to  is  but  a  vault  (f  ice, — that 
these  two  indications,  leading  to  the  same  conclusion,  go  far  to  con- 
vince me  he  was  a  profouudlj'  immoral  and  irreligious  spirit,  with 
as  rare  faculties  of  intelligence  as  ever  belonged  to  any  one." 

His  health  improved  by  !dadeira,  he  returned  to  England,  still 
fragile,  but  radiant  with  cheerfulness;  "botli  his  activity  and  his 
composure  he  bore  with  him,  through  all  weathers,  to  the  final  close; 
and  on  the  whole,  right  manfully  he  walked  his  wild,  stern  way  to- 
wards the  goal,  and  like  a  Roman  wrappediiis  mantle  round  bim  when 
he  fell."  He  went  on  writing  for  Blackwood,  contributing  the 
"Hymns  of  a  Hermit,"  " Crystals  from  a  Cavern,"  "Thoughts  and 
Images,"  and  other  papers  of  this  sort.  Then  he  engaged  as  con- 
tributor to  the  London  and  Westminster  Review,  for  which  he  wrote 
several  fiifb  papers.  The  raw  winter  air  of  England  proving  too 
much  for  his  weak  lungs,  he  went  abroad  again, — this  time  to  Italy, 
— where  he  reveled  in  its  picture-galleries  and  collections  of  fine  art. 
He  did  not  like  t!ie  religious  aspect  of  things  there,  and  spoke  freely 
about  it.  He  was  home  again  in  1839,  considerably  improved  in 
health ;  but  still  he  continued  to  lead  a  nomadic  life,  for  the  sake  of 
his  health.  Now  at  Hastings,  then  at  Clifton;  and  again  he  had  to 
fly  before  worse  symptoms  than  had  yet  shown  themselves, — spitting 
of  blood  and  such  like, — taking  flight  late  in  the  season  for  Madeiru. 
But  when  he  reached  Ealmputh,  the  weather  was  so  rough  that  ho 
could  not  set  sail;  so  he  rested  there  for  the  winter,  the  mild  climate 
suiting  his  feeble  lungs  better  than  Clifton  had  done.  By  this  time, 
during  his  residence  in  the  last-named  place,  he  had  written  hia  fine 


JOHN  STEHLING.  131 

paper  on  "  Carlyle,"  for  the  Westminster  Review,  and  also  published 
a  little  volume  of  poems,  containing  some  noble  pieces.  Carlyle 
speaks  in  rather  a  slighting  strain  of  poetry  in  general,  and  has  a 
strong  dislike  to  what  he  calls  the  "fiddling  talent."  •'  Why  sing,'* 
he  asks,  "  your  bits  of  thoughts,  if  you  can  contrive  to  speak  them? 
By  your  thought,  not  by  your  mode  of  delivering  it,  you  must  live  or 
die.'*  Besides,  he  denies  to  Sterling  that  indispensable  quality  of 
successful  poetr3% — depth  of /ime;  his  verses  "had  a  monotonous 
rub-a-dub,  instead  ot  tune:  no  trace  of  music  deeper  than  that  of  a 
well-beaten  drum."  But  let  any  one  read  Sterling's  "DaBdalus," 
and  they  will  be  satisfied  of  his  tunefuless,  as  well  as  his  true  poetic 
feeling.  We  know  no  verses  fuller  of  music  in  every  line.  These 
are  a  few  stanzas: 

Wall  for  D03dalus,  all  that  is  fairest. 

All  ttiat  Is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  I 
Shapes  whose  beauty  is  truest  and  rarest. 

Haunt  with  your  lamps  and  spells  his  grave. 

Statues,  hend  your  heads  in  sorrow, 

Ye  that  glance  'mid  ruins  old, 
That  know  not  a  past,  nor  expect  a  morrow, 

On  many  a  moonUt  Grecian  wold ! 

By  sculptured  cave,  and  speal:ing  river, 
^  I'hee,  JJcedalus,  oft  the  nymphs  recall ; 
"'he  leaves,  vnth  a  sound  of  winter,  quiver, 
Mm-mur  thy  name,  and  murmuring  fall. 

Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us, 

Our  loftier  brothers,  but.  one  in  blood; 
By  bed  and  table  tliey  lord  it  o'er  us, 

With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of  good. 

The  volume  of  poems,  however, -attracted  no  notice  ;  yet  Sterling 
labored  on,  determined  to  conquer  success."  He  met  with  some  de- 
lightful friends  at  Falmouth,  among  others,  with  John  Stuart  Mill 
and  an  intelligent  Quaker  family, — the  Foxes, — with  whom  he  spent 
many  haj^py  hours.  In  the  following  spring  he  was  by  his  own 
hearth  again  at  Clifton,  now  engaged  on  a  long  poem  called  '*  The 
Election,"  which  was  published;  he  had  also  commenced  his  tragjdy, 
of  "Strafford,*'  when  he  went  to  winter  at  Torquay.  Tims  ho 
journeyed  flying  about  from  place  to  place  for  life.  Then  to  Fal- 
mouth again,  where  he  delivered  an  excellent  lecture  on  "The 
Worth  of  knowledge,"  before  the  Polytechnic  Institution  of  that 
place.  Soon  after,  he  wtis  off  to  Naples  and  the  sunny  south,  his 
health  still  demanding  warmth.  He  was  home  again  in  18i3  ;  and 
one  day,  while  helping  one  of  the  servants  to  lift  a  heavj?-  table,  he 
v/as  seized  with  sudden  hemorrhage,  and  for  long  lay  dangerously 
ill.  By  dint  of  careful  nursing,  he  recovered,  but  the  sc^eds  of 
death  must  have  been  planted  in  him  by  this  time.      This  year  his 


132  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

mother  died,  and  in  a  few  days  after  his  beloved  wife, — terrible 
blows  to  him.  But  weak  and  worn  as  ho  was,  he  bore  up  manfuUj^ 
making  no  vain  repinings,  and  with  pious  valor  fronting  the 
future.  He  had  six  children  left  to  his  charge,  and  he  felt  the 
responsibility  deeply.  Fabnouth,  associated  as  it  now  was  in  his 
mind  with  calamity  and  sorrow,  he  could  endure  no  longer;  so  he 
purchased  a  house  at  Ventnor,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and  removed 
thither  at  once.  Sterling  visited  London  for  the  last  time  in  1813, 
when  Carlyle  dined  with  him.  "I  remember  it,"  says  he,  *'as  one 
of  the  saddest  of  dinners  ;  though  Sterling  talked  copiously,  and 
our  friends — Theodore  Parker  one  of  them — were  pleasant  and  dis- 
tinguished men.  All  was  so  haggard  in  one's  memory,  and  half 
consciously  in  one's  anticipations  ;  sad,  as  if  one  had  been  dining 
in  a  ruin,  in  the  crypt  of  a  mausoleum." 

Carlyle  saw  Sterling  afterwards  at  his  apartments  in  town,  and 
the  following  is  the  conclusion  of  his  last  interview  with  him  : 
**We  parted  before  long  ;  bed-time  for  invalids  being  come,  ho  es- 
corted me  down  certain  carpeted  back-stairs,  and  would  not  be 
forbidden  ;  we  took  leave  under  the  dim  skies  ;  and,  alas  !  little  as 
I  then  dreamed  of  it,  this,  so  far  as  I  can  calculate,  must  have  been 
the  last  time  I  ever  saw  hinl  in  the  world.  Soltly  fis  a  commoa 
evening,  the  last  <f  ike  evenings  had  passed  aioat/,  and  no  other  would  come 
for  me  forever  more. " 

Sterling  returned  to  Ventnor,  and  proceeded  witl^his  "  Cceur- 
de-Lion.  But  the  light  of  his  life  had  gone.  *•  I  am  going  on 
quietly  here,  rather  than  happil}^"  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Newman; 
"sometime  quite  helpless,  not  from  distinct  illness,  but  from 
sad  thoughts,  and  a  ghastly  dreaminess.  The  heart  is  gone  out  of 
my  life.'*  The  brittle  existence  of  his  was  at  length  about  to  be 
shivered.  Another  breakage  of  a  blood-vessel  occurred,  and  he  lay 
prostrate  for  the  last  time.  The  great  change  was  at  hand, — the 
final  act  of  the  tragedy  of  life.  He  gathered  his  strength  together 
to  quit  [life  piously  and  manfully.  For  six  months  he  had  sat 
looking  at  the  approaches  of  the  foe,  and  he  blanched  not  nor 
quailed  before  him.  He  had  continued  working,  and  setting  all 
bis  worldly  affairs  in  order.  He  wrote  some  noble  letters  to  his 
eldest  boy,  then  at  school  in  London,  full  of  affectionate  counsel. 
"These  letters,"  says  Carlyle,  *'Ihave  lately  read;  they  give  be- 
yond any  he  has  written,  a  noble  image  of  the  intrinsic  Sterling,  — 
the  same  face  we  had  long  known ;  but  painted  now  as  on  the  azures 
of  eternity,  serene,  victorious,  divinely  sad;  the  dusts  and  extraneous 
disfigurements  imprinted  on  it  by  the  world  now  washed  away." 

About  a  month  before  his  death,  he  wrote  a  last  letter  to  Carlyle, 
of  "Remembrance  and  Farewell,"  wherein  he  says:  "On  higher 
matters  there  is  nothing  to  say.  I  tread  the  common  road  into  the 
great  darkness,  without  any  thought  of  fear,  and  with  very  much  of 
hope.    Certainty,  indeed,   I  have  none.     With  regard  to  You  and 


JOHN  STEELING.  133 

Me,  I  cannot  begin  to  write;  having  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  shut 
the  lid  of  those  secrets  with  all  the  iron  weights  that  arc  in  my 
power.  Toward  me  it  is  still  more  true  than  toward  England, 
that  no  man  has  been  and  done  like  you.  Heaven  bless  you  !  If 
I  can  lend  a  hand  when  there,  that  will  not  be  wanting.  It  is  all 
very  strange,  but  not  one-hundredth  part  so  sad  as  it  seems  to  the 
standers-by. " 

"  It  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  when  this  letter  came  to  me," 
says  Carlyle,  *'and  if  in  the  great  Cathedral  of  Immensity  I  did  no 
worship  that  day,  the  fault  surely  was  my  own.  Sterling  affec- 
tionately refused  to  see  me;  which  also  was  kind  and  wise.  And 
four  days  before  his  death,  there  ara  some  stanzas  of  verse  for  me, 
written  as  if  in  star-fire  and  immortal  tears;  which  are  among  my 
sacred  possessions,  to  be  kept  for  mj'-self  alone.  His  business  with 
the  world  was  done;  the  one  business  now  to  await  silently  what 
may  lie  in  other  grander  worlds.  *  God  is  great, '  he  was  wont  to  say: 
•  God  is  great.*  The  Maurices  were  now  constantly  near  him;  Mrs. 
Maurice  (his  sister)  assiduously  watching  over  him.  On  the  even- 
ing of  Wednesday,  the  18th  of  September,  his  brother— as  he  did 
every  two  or  three  days — came  down: found  him  in  the  old  temper, 
weak  in  strength,  but  not  very  sensibly  weaker;  they  talked  calmly 
together  for  an  hour  ;  then  Anthony  left  his  bedside,  and  retired 
for  the  night,  not  expectinf?  any  change.  But  suddenly,  about 
eleven  o'clock,  there  came  a  summons  and  alarm ;  hurrying  to  his 
brother's  room,  he  found  his  brother  dying;  and  in  a  short  while 
more,  the  faint  last  struggle  was  ended,  and  all  those  struggles  and 
strenuous,  often  foiled,  endeavors  of  eight-and-thirty  years  lay 
hushed  in  death." 


LEIGH   HUNT. 


■  1  1  r  HAT  reader  of  books  is  there  who  does  not  feel  that  he  owes 
YY  8-  debt  of  gratitude  to  Leigh  Hunt,  for  hia  many  beautiful 
'  '  thoughts,  his  always  cheerful  views  of  life,  and*  his  gener- 
ous efforts,  extending  over  a  period  of  half  a  century,  on  behalf  of 
the  freedom  and  happiness  of  the  human  family  ?  His  name  is  as- 
sociated in  our  minds  with  all  manner  of  kindness,  love,  beauty, 
and  gentleness.  He  has  given  us  a  fresh  insight  into  nature,  made 
the  flowers  seem  gayer,  the  earth  greener,  the  skies  more  bright, 
and  all  things  more  full  of  happiness  and  blessing.  By  the  magical 
touch  of  his  pen,  he  *'  kissed  dead  things  to  life."  Age,  which  dries 
np  the  geniality  of  so  many,  brought  no  change  to  him.  To  the 
last  he  was  spoken  of  as  the  *' gray-haired  boy,  —"the  old-young 
poet,  with  gray  hairs  on  his  head,  but  youth  in  his  eyes,*' — and  the 
perusal  of  his  Autobiography,  written  in  his  old  age,  serves  to 
bring  out  charmingly  the  prominent  features  of  his  life. 

Leigh  Hunt's  temperament  doubtless  owed  something  to  the 
warm,  sunshiny  clime  in  which  his  progenitors  lived,  that  of  Bar- 
badoes,  in  the  West  Indies.  His  grandfather  was  a  clergyman 
there,  and  his  grandmother  an  O'Brien,— very  proud  of  her  alleged 
descent  from  certain  mythical  Irish  kings  of  that  name.  Their  son 
(Leigh  Hunt's  father)  was  sent  to  Piiiladelphia,  then  belonging  to 
the  English  American  colonies,  to  be  educated  ;  and  there  he  mar- 
ried and  settled.  But  on  the  war  of  the  American  Revolution 
breaking  out,  he  entered  so  warmly  into  the  cause  of  the  British 
government  that  he  was  mobbed,  narrowly  escaped  tarring  and  feath- 
ering, and  ultimately  fled  to  England,  his  wife  and  little  family  fol- 
lowing him.  He  was  there  ordained  a  clergyman  by  the  Bishop  of 
London,  and  became  famous  as  a  ))reacher  of  charity  sermons.  He 
was  fond,  however,  of  pleasurable  living;  drank  more  than  was  good 
for  him;  got  into  pecuniary  difficulties,  from  whch  he  never  escaped; 
and  lived  a  life  of  shifts  and  expedients,  always  trusting,  like  Mr. 

134 


LEIGH  HUNT.  135 

Micawber,  fco  "  somethings:  turning  up."  He  found  a  brief  friend  in 
Marquis  of  Chandos,  and  was  engaged  by  bim  as  tutor  for  his 
nephew,  Mr.  Leigh,  after  whom  Leigh  Hunt  was  subsequently 
named. 

To  be  tutor  in  a  duke's  family  is  often  a  sure  road  to  a  bishopric, 
or  some  other  high  promotion  in  the  church :  but  the  tutpr  in  this 
case  had  no  such  good  fortune :  his  West  Indian  temperament  spoiled 
all:  he  had  ceased  to  think  th^^  British  government  perfect,  and  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  express  his  opinions  freely  thereon.  So,  after 
leaving  this  situation,  he  lapsed  again  into  difficulties,  and  after- 
wards into  distress  and  debt.  Still  his  happy  and  joyous  nature  bore 
him  up,  even  though  he  v/as  haunted  by  duns  and  became  familiar 
with  prisons.  "Such  an  art  had  he,"  said  his  son,  '*of  making  his 
home  comfortable  when  he  chose,  and  of  settling  himself  to  the  most 
tranquil  pleasures,  that,  if  she  could  have  ceased  to  look  forward 
about  her  children,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults,  those  evenings 
would  have  brought  unmingled  satisfiction  to  her,  when,  after  set- 
tling the  little  apartment,  brightening  the  tire,  and  bringing  out  the 
coffee,  my  mother  knew  that  her  husband  was  going  to  read  Saurin 
or  Barrow  to  her,  with  his  fine  voice,  and  unequivocal  enjoyment." 

Leigh  Hunt's  mother  was  of  American  birth,  a  Philadelphian;  she 
had  "no  accomplishments  but  the  two  best  of  all,  a  love  of  nature 
and  a  love  of  books."  She  was  a  v/oman  of  great  energy  of  principle, 
though  timid  and  gentle  almost  to  excess.  Her  husband's  great 
dangers  at  Philadelphia,  and  the  imminent  risk  of  shipv/reck  which 
she,  with  her  family,  ran  on  the  voyage  to  England,  had  shaken  her 
soul  as  well  as  frame.  Her  son  said  of  her:  ♦*  The  sight  of  two  men 
fighting  in  the  streets  v/ould  drive  her  in  tears  down  another  road; 
and  I  remember,  when  we  lived  pear  the  park,  she  would  take  me  a 
long  circuit  out  of  the  way,  rather  than  hazard  the  spectacle  of  the 
soldiers.  Little  did  she  think  of  the  timidity  with  which  she  was 
inoculating  me,  and  what  difficultyT  should  have,  when  I  went  to 
school,  to  sustain  all  tho«e  pure  theories,  and  that  unbending  re- 
sistance to  oi3pression,  w^hich  she  inculcated.  However,  perhaps  it 
ultimately  turned  out  for  the  best.  One  must  feel  more  than  usual 
for  the  sore  places  of  humanity,  even  to  fight  properly  in  their  be- 
half. One  holiday,  in  a  severe  winter,  as  she  was  taking  me  home, 
she  was  petitioned  for  charity  by  a  woman,  sick  and  ill-clothed.  It 
was  in  Blackfriars  Road,  I  think,  about  midway.'  My  mother,  with 
the  tears  in  her  eyes,  turned  up  a  gateway,  or  some  such  place,  and 
beckoning  the  woman  to  follow,  took  off  her  fiannel  petticoat  and 
gave  it  to  her.  It  is  supposed  that  a  cold  which  ensued  fixed  the 
rheumatism  upon  her  for  life.  Her  greatest  pleasure,  during  her 
decay,  was  to  lie  on  a  sofa,  looking  at  the  setting  sun.  She  used  to 
liken  it  to  the  door  of  heaven;  and  faacy  her  lost  children  there 
waiting  for  her."  As  a  man  is  but  his  parents,  or  some  other  of  his 
ancestors,  drawn  out,  so  Leigh  Hunt,  in  his  own  life  and  history, 


136  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

was  but  a  repetition  of  his  father  and  mother,  and  an  embodimont, 
of  their  character  in  about  equal  proportions;  inheriting  from  the 
one  a  happy  and  joyous  temperament,  and  from  the  other  tenderness 
and  a  deep  love  of  nature  and  books. 

Leigh  Hunt  was  born  at  Southgate,  in  the  parish  of  Edmonton,  on 
the  19th  gf  October,  1784,  in  the  mi^st  of  the  beautitul  pastoral 
scenery  which  he  afterwards  loved  to  paint  in  his  works.  During 
his  infancy  he  was  delicate  and  sickly,  and  was  watched  over  witii 
great  tenderness  by  his  mother.  To  assist  his  recovery,  he  was 
taken  to  the  coast  of  France  for  a  short  time,  and  returned  improved 
in  health.  He  was  very  nervous,  and  easily  frightened  by  his  elder 
brothers,  who  delighted  to  terrify  him  by  ghost-stories  and  pretended 
apparitions. 

The  great  events  which  were  passing  in  Hunt's  childhood  rose  up 
afterwards  in  his  mind  like  a  dream, — the  American  Revolution 
completed,  the  French  Revolution  beginning  ;  the  eloquence  of 
Burke,  and  the  rivalries  of  Pitt  and  Fox;  the  poetry  of  Cowper  and 
Young,  and  the  novels  of  Miss  Burney.and  Mrs.  Inchbald;  the 
violent  politics  of  Wilkes,  and  the  gallantries  of  the  young  Prince 
of  Wales.  These  were  the  days  of  pigtails  and  toupees,  when  ladies 
wore  hoops,  and  lay  all  night  with  their  hair  three  -stories  high, 
waiting  for  the  spectacle  of  next  day, — a  very  different  style  of 
living  and  dressing  from  the  present. 

The  boy  went  to  school  at  Christ  Church  Hospital,  where  Lamb 
and  Coleridge  were  also  educated  about  the  same  time.  The  thrash- 
ing system,  which  was  then  in  vogue  in  all  schools,  horrified  him; 
his  gentle  spirit  made  him  the  sport  of  the  other  boys,  and  he  **  went 
to  the  wall"  till  he  gained  strength  and  address  to  stand  liis  own 
ground.  Even  as  a  boy  he  had  the  reputation  of  a  romantic  enthu- 
siast. He  fought  only  once,  beat  his  opponent  and  made  a  friend 
of  him. 

While  only  a  school-boy,  Leigh  Hunt  fell  in  love  with  the  Muses, 
— with  Collins  and  Gray  passionately, — and  he  already  began  to 
write  verses.  Ho  also  fell  in  love  in  another  way, — with  a  charm- 
ing cousin,  Fanny  Dayreil.  '* Fanny  was  a  lass  of  fifteen,  with 
little  laughing  eyes,  and  a  mouth  like  a  plum.  I  was  then  (I  fool 
as  if  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  il)  not  more  than  thirt«;en,  if  so 
old;  but  Iliad  read  Tooke's  Pantheon,  and  came  of  a  precocious  race. 
My  cousin  camo  of  one,  too;  and  was  about  to  be  married  to  a  hand- 
some young  fellow  of  three-"and-twenty.  I  thought  nothing  of  this, 
for  nothing  could  be  more  innocent  than  my  intentions.  I  Vv^as  not 
old  enough,  or  grudging  enough,  or  whatever  it  was,  even  to  be 
jealous.  I  thought  everybody  must  love  Fanny  Dayreil;  and  if  she 
did  not  leave  me  out  in  permitting  it,  I  was  satisfied.  It  was 
enough  for  me  to  bo  with  her  as  lonpj  as  I  could;  to  gaze  on  her  with 
delight  as  she  floated  hither  and  thither;  and  to  sit  on  the  stiles  in 
the  neighboring  fields,   thinking    of   Tooke's  Pantheon.     Three- 


LEIGH  HUNT.  137 

fourths  of  my  heart  was  devoted  to  friendship;  the  rest  was  in  a 
Yague  dream  of  beauty,  and  female  cousins,  and  nymphs  and  green 
fields,  and  a  fee)ing  which,  though  of  a  warm  nature,  was  full  of 
fear  and  respect."  In  course  of  time  Fanny  married,  and  his  first 
passion  died  away,  but  was  not  forgotten. 

At  Christ  Church,  Hunt  formed  intimacies  with  men  afte  wards 
famous  in  literature.  There  was  Wood,  afterwards  Fellow  of  Pem- 
broke College,  Cambridge;  Mitchell,  the  translator  of  Aristophanes, 
and  a  Quarterly  Reviewer;  and  Barnes,  the  future  editor  of  the 
Times.  With  the  last  named  he  learned  Italian,  and  the  two  went 
shouting  Metastasio  together,  as  loud  as  they  could  bawl,  over  the 
Hornsey  fields. 

At  fifteen  he  took  leave  of  his  school-books  and  school  friends, 
and  after  going  about  eight  years  bareheaded,  put  on  the  fatal  hat. 
He  set  about  writing  verse  and  haunting  book-stalls, — the  occupation 
of  no  small  part  of  his  future  life.  The  first  verses  he  wrote  were 
collected  and  published  by  subscription.  These,  he  confesses,  were 
but  *♦  a  heap  of  imitations,  all  but  absolutely  worthless."  The  book 
was,  however,  successful,  particularly  in  the  metropolis;  and  the 
Author  found  himself  a  kind  of  "Young  lloscius"  in  verse.  His 
grandfather  in  America,  sensible  of  the  young  author's  fame,  wrote 
to  him  that,  if  he  would  come  to  Philadelphia  he  would  "make  a 
man  of  him;"  to  which  his  answer  was,  that  "men  grew  in  England 
as  well  as  America." 

After  joining  as  a  private  in  the  volunteers,  who  were  called  into 
existence  by  the  rumor  of  Bonaparte's  coming,  and  going  the  round 
of  the  London  theaters,  taking  his  full  of  pleasures,  Leigh  Hunt  ap- 
peared, for  the  first  time,  as  a  prose  essayist,  in  the  columns  of  the 
Traveler,  now  the  Globe,  newspaper,  under  the  signature  of  "Mr. 
Town,  Junior,  for  which  he  received  as  his  reward  some  five  or  six 
copies  of  each  paper  in  which  his  essays  appeared.  He  wrote  a 
long  mock  heroic  poem  about  the  same  time,  and  made  several  at- 
tempts at  farce,  comedy, and  tragedy  ;  reading  largely  in  Goldsmith, 
Voltaire,  novels  and  history,  promiscuouly.  His  brother,  John 
Hunt,  set  up  a  paper  called  The  News,  in  1805,  on  which  the  sub- 
ject of  our  memoir,  then  in  his  twentieth  year,  went  to  live  with 
him;  and  wrote  the  theatricals  for  the  journal.  He  there  commenced 
the  system  of  independent  criticism,  and  adhered  to  it,  though  he 
afterwards  frankly  admitted  that  he  then  knew  nothing  of  either 
actors  or  acting.  In  the  midst  of  his  labors,  he  fell  into  ill-health 
and  melancholy  ;  palpitations,  hypochondria,  dyspepsia — in  other 
words,  the  "literary  disease  "  had  attacked  him.  He  recovered,  by 
ceasing  his  occupation  for  a  time  and  taking  exercise  ;  but  he  gained 
more  than  a  cure.  "  One  great  benefit,"  he  says,  "resulted  to  me 
from  this  suffering.  It  gave  me  an  amount  of  reflection  such  as,  in 
all  probability,  I  never  should  have  had  without  it ;  and  if  readers 
have  derived  any  good  from  the  graver  portion  of  my  writings,  I  at- 


138  BEIEF  BIOGEAPHIES. 

tribute  it  to  this  experience  of  evil.  It  tauglii  mo  patience  ;  it 
taught  me  charity  (however  imperfectly  I  may  have  exercised 
either)  ;  it  tanght  me  charity  even  towards  myself;  it  taught  me  the 
worth  of  little  pleasures,  as  well  as  the  utility  and  dignity  of  great 
pains  ;  it  taught  me  that  evil  itself  contained  good  ;  nay,  it  taughfc 
me  to  doubt  whether  any  such  thing  as  evil,  considered  in  itself,  ex- 
isted ;  whether  things  altogether,  as  far  as  our  planet  knows  them, 
could  have  been  so  good  without  it  ;  whether  the  desire,  neverthe- 
less, which  nature  has  implanted  in  us  for  its  destruction,  be  not  the 
fiignal  and  the  means  -to  that  end;  and  whether  its  destruction, 
finally,  will  not  prove  its  existence,  in  the  meantime,  to  have  been 
necessary  to  the  very  bliss  that  supersedes  it."  We  could  not,  per- 
haps, have  Bclected  a  passage  from  Leigh  Hunt's  writings  that 
embodies  his  philosophy  more  completely  than  than  this  does. 

The  year  1808  saw  him  and  his  brother  John  afoot  with  an  im- 
portant enterprise,  — the  establishment  of  the  since  famous  Examiner 
newspaper.  It  started  as  a  Kadical  print,  — a  bold  thing  in  those 
perilous  times,  when  a  man  dared  scarcely  say  the  thing  he  would 
without  risk  of  Horsemonger  Jail,  or  worse.  The  new  paper 
attracted  attention,  and  brought  around  it  many  choice  and  kin- 
dred spirits.  Leigh  Hunt  now  mixed  among  literary  men,  whom 
he  has  described  in  his  Autobiography.  Of  Theodore  Hook, 
Thomas  Campbell,  Horace  Smith,  Fuseli,  Matthews,  Godwin,  Bon- 
nycastle,  Byron,  Shelley,  Keats,  Wordsworth,  and  others,  hefurnis)ie3 
many  recollections.  Horace  Smith  (one  of  the  authors  of  the  '•Re- 
jected Addresses")  he  speaks  of  as  **  delicious."  "  A  finer  nature 
than  Horace  Smith's,  except  in  the  single  instance  of  Sheliey,  I 
never  met  with  in  man  ;  nor  even  in  that  instance,  all  circum- 
stances considered,  have  I  a  right  to  say  that  those  who  knew  him 
as  intimately  as  I  did  the  other,  would  not  have  had  the  same 
reasons  to  love  him.  Shelley  said  to  me  once  :  ♦  I  know  not  what 
Horace  Smith  must  take  me  for,  sometimes  ;  I  am  afraid  he  must 
think  me  a  strange  fellow  ;  but  it  is  so  odd,  that  the  only  truly 
generous  person  I  ever  knew,  w^ho  had  money  to  be  generous  with, 
should  be  a  stock  broker.  And  he  writes  poetry,  too,*  continued 
Shelley,  his  voice  rising  in  a  fervor  of  astonishment, — 'he  writes 
poetry  and  pastoral  dramas,  and  yet  knows  how  to  make  money, 
and  does  make  it,  and  is  still  generous  ! '" 

Here  is  an  odd  outline  of  a  man  !  "Bonnycastle  was  a  good  fel- 
low: he  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  long-headed  man,  with  large  features  and 
spectacles,  and  a  deep,  internal  voice,  with  a  twang  of  rusticity  in  it, 
and  he  goggled  over  his  plate  like  a  horse.  I  often  thought  that  a 
bag  of  corn  would  have  hung  well  on  him.  His  laugh  was  equine, 
and  showed  his  teeth  upwards  at  the  sides."  This  was  the  famous 
algebraist. 

The  Examiner,  in  which  the  brothers  were  boldly  discussing  the 
politics  of  the  day,  very  soon  drew  upon  it  the  keen  eyes  of  men  in 


LEIGH  HUNT.  139 

power,  wlio  waited  for  an  opportunity  of  pouncing  upon  it.  The 
remarks  on  a  pamphlet  published  by  Major  Hogan,  in  which  the 
notorious  Mrs.  Clarke's  dispensation  or  the  Duke  of  York's  patronage 
in  return  tor  hard  cash  was  broadly  hinted,  excited  marked  atten- 
tion, and  the  government  commenced  an  action  against  the  proprie- 
tors of  the  paper,  from  which  they  were  only  saved  by  a  member  of 
tlio  House  of  Commons  (Colonel  Wardle)  taking  up  the  subject,  and 
bringing  up  Mrs.  Clarke  (whoso  relation  to  the  Duke  of  York  was 
well  known)  for  examination  at  the  Bar  of  the  House,  when  the  whole 
thing  was  exposed  by  her,  w*ith  barefaced  effrontery.  Before  another 
year  was  out,  the  government  instituted  a  second  prosecution,  for  a 
sentence  in  an  article  which,  at  this  time  of  day,  would  look  exceed- 
ingly mild,  if  appearing  in  the  daily  Times.  The  Morning  Chronicle 
was  first  prosecuted  for  having  copied  the  article,  but  the  jury  pro- 
nounced an  acquittal,  and  the  action  against  the  Examiner  again  fell 
to  the  ground.  A  third  prosecution  was  shortly  commenced  by  the 
government  against  the  proprietors,  for  having  copied  an  article  from 
the  Stamford  News,  against  military  flogging  ;  but  on  a  trial,  the  jury 
acquitted  them. 

About  this  time,  John  Hunt  started  a  quarterly  magazine,  called 
The  Reflector,  which  Leigh  Hunt  edited,  and  of  which  only  four 
numbers  appeared.  Charles  Lamb,  Barnes  (afterwards  of  the  Times), 
and  some  other  Christ  Church  Hospital  men,  were  amongst  its  con- 
tributors. In  it  first  appeared  Leigh  Hunt's  "Feast  of  the  Poets," in 
which  he  satirized  many  of  his  Tory  contemporaries, — amongst  others 
Gifford,  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly,  the  only  man  for  wholn  he  seems 
to  have  entertained  a  thorough  dislike.  Amongst  the  poetical  effu- 
sions in  the  Eefiector  also  appeared  one  on  a  famous  dinner  given 
b)^  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  his  particular 
friends.  The  Prince  had  just  deserted  the  Whig  party,  and  gone 
over  to  the  Tories,  so  that  there  was  a  strong  savor  of  political  gall  in 
the  piece.  About  the  same  time,  an  article  on  the  Prince,  in  con- 
nection with  the  annual  dinner  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  was  inserted  in 
the  Examiner,  and  on  this  the  government  fastened,  as  the  means  of 
crushing  the  paper  and  its  proprietors.  The  point  in  the  article  at 
which  the  Prince  was  understood  to  have  taken  violent  offense  was, 
that  he  whom  his  adulators  styled  **an  Adonis  in  loveliness,"  should 
be  plainly  designated  as  **a  corpulent  man  of  fifty,"  which  he  was. 
The  government  prosecution  succeeded.  The  proprietors  of  the 
paper  were  fined  one  hundred  pounds,  and  condemned  to  two  years* 
imprisonment  each,  in  separate  jails  ! 

Leigh  Hunt's  prison-life  was  thoroughly  characteristic  of  him.  He 
was  in  a  very  delicate  state  of  health  when  first  imprisoned  in  Horse- 
monger  Jail,  but  he  determined  to  make  the  best  of  it.  His  wife  and 
friends  were  allowed  to  be  constantly  with  him.  Owing  to  his  deli- 
cate state  of  health,  the  doctor  proposed  he  should  be  removed  into 
the  infirmary,  and  th6  proposal  was  granted*    And  now  see  how  a 


L 


140  BEIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

happy  mintl  and  a  sound  conscience  can  make  even  a  prison-house 
a  place  of  joy. 

*'  The  infirmary  was  divided  into  four  wards,  with  as  many  small 
rooms  attached  to  them.  The  two  upper  wards  were  occupied,  but 
the  two  on  the  floor  had  never  been  used;  and  one  of  these,  not  very 
providently  (for  I  had  not  yet  learned  to  think  of  money)  I  turned 
into  a  noblo  room.  I  papered  the  walls  with  a  trellis  of  roses;  I  had 
the  ceiling  colored  with  clouds  and  sky;  the  barred  windov  s  I 
screened  with  Venetian  blinds;  and  when  my  book-cases  were  set 
up  with  their  nests,  and  flowers  and  a  piano-forte  made  their  appear- 
ance, perhaps  there  was  not  a  handsomer  room  on  that  side  the  water. 
I  took  a  pleasure,  when  a  stranger  knocked  at  the  door,  to  see  him 
come  in  and  stare  about  him.  The  surprise  on  issuing  from  the 
borough,  and  passing  through  the  avenues  of  a  jail,  was  dramatic. 
Charles  Lamb  declared  there  was  no  other  such  room,  except  in  a 
fairy-tale. 

'•  But  I  possessed  another  surprise,  which  was  a  garden.  There 
was  a  little  yard  outside  the  room,  railed  off  from  another  belong- 
ing to  the  neighboring  ward.  This  yard  I  shut  in  with  green 
palings,  bordered  it  with  a  thick  bed  of  earth  from  a  nursery,  and 
even  contrived  to  have  a  grass-plot.  The  earth  I  filled  with  flowers 
and  young  trees.  There  was  an  apple-tree,  from  which  we  man- 
aged to  get  a  pudding  the  second  year.  As  to  my  flowers,  they 
were  allowed  to  bo  perfect.  Tho^mas  Moore,  who  came  to  see  me 
with  Lord  Byron,  told  me  he  had  seen  no  such  heart's-ease.  Hero 
I  wrote  and  read  in  fine  weather,  sometimes  under  an  awning.  In 
autumn,  my  trellises  were  hung  with  scarlet  runners,  which  added 
to  the  flowery  investment.  I  used  to  shut  my  eyes  in  my  arm- 
chair, and  affect  to  think  of  myself  hundreds  of  miles  off. 

••  But  my  triumph  was  in  issuing  forth  of  a  morning.  A  wicket 
out  of  the  garden  led  into  the  large  one  belonging  to  the  prison. 
The  latter  was  only  for*  vegetables;  but  it  contained  a  cherry-tree 
which  1  saw  twice  in  blossom.  I  parceled  out  the  ground,  in  im- 
agination, into  favorite  districts.  I  made  a  point  of  dressing 
myself  as  if  for  a  long  walk;  and  then,  putting  on  my  gloves,  and 
taking  my  book  under  my  arm,  stepped  forth,  requesting  my  wife 
not  to  wait  dinner  if  I  was  too  late.  My  eldest  little  boy  to  whom 
Lamb  addressed  some  charming  verses  on  the  occasion,  was  my 
constant  companion,  and  we  used  to  play  all  sorts  of  juvenile  games 
together.  It  was,  probably,  in  dreaming  of  one  of  these  games 
(but  the  words  had  a  more  touching  effect  on  my  ear)  that,  he  ex- 
claimed one  night  in  his  sleep,  *No,  I'm  not  lost;  I'm  found.* 
Neither  he  nor  I  were  very  strong  at  the  time;  but  I  have  lived  to 
see  him  a  man  of  forty,  and  wherever  he  is  found,  a  generous  hand 
and  a  great  understanding  will  be  found  together." 

The  two  years  slowly  passed,  during  which  the  visits  of  many 
friends,  Hazlitt,   Lamb,    Shelley,   Hentham,  and  others,   cheered 


LEIGH  HUNT.  141 

Leigh  Hunt's  captivity.  He  read  and  wrote  verses;  composed  the 
principal  part  of  tlio  "Story  of  liimini;"  furnished  articles  and 
critcisms  for  the  Examiner;  and  anxiously  looked  forward  to  the 
hour  of  his  release.  Meanwhile,  there  were  generous  friends  who 
volunteered  to  pay  the  fine  for  lifm,  but  their  offer  was  declined. 
The  Hunts  would  bear  their  own  burdens,  and  maintain  their  own 
independence  while  they  could.  At  length,  on  the  3d  of  February, 
1805,  they  were  free. 

*'Itwas  now  thought  I  should  dart  out  of  my  cage  like  a  bird, 
and  feel  no  end  in  the  delight  of  ranging.  But,  partly  from  ill- 
health  and  partly  from  habit,  the  day  of  my  liberation  brought  a 
good  deal  of  j^ain  with  it.  An  illness  of  a  long  standing,  which  re- 
quired a  very  different  treatment,  had  by  this  time  been  burnt  in 
upon  me  by  the  iron  that  enters  into  the  soul  of  the  captive, 
wrap  it  in  flowers  as  he  may;  and  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  that, 
after  stopping  a  little  at  the  house  of  my  friend  Alsager,  I  had  not 
the  courage  to  continue  looking  at  the  shoals  of  people  passing  to 
and  fro  as  the  coach  drove  up  the  Strand.  The  whole  business  of 
life  seemed  a  hideous  impertinence.  The  first  pleasant  sensation 
I  experienced  was  when  the  coach  turned  into  the  Few  Road,  and 
I  beheld  the  old  hills  of  my  affection,  standing  where  they  used  to 
do,  and  breathing  me  a  welcome. 

"It  was  very  slowly  that  I  recovered  anything  like  a  sensation  of 
health.  The  bitterest  evil  I  suffered  was  in  consequence  of  hav- 
ing been  confined  so  long  in  one  spot.  The  habit  stuck  to  me  on 
my  return  home,  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner,  and  made,  I  fear, 
some  of  my  friends  think  me  ungrateful.  This  weakness  I  have 
outlived;  but  I  have  never  thoroughly  recovered  the  shock  given  to 
my  constitution.  My  natural  spirits,  however,  have  always  strug- 
gled hard  to  see  me  reasonably  treated.  Many  things  give  me  ex- 
quisite pleasure,  which,  seem  to  affect  other  men  in  a  very  minor 
degree;  and  I  enjoyed,  after,  such  happy  moments  with  my  friends, 
even  in  prison,  that,  in  the  midst  of  the  beautiful  climate  which  I 
afterwards  visited,  I  was  sometimes  in  doubt  whether  I  would  not 
rather  have  been  in  jail  than  Italy." 

The  *' Story  of  Rimini"  was  published  shortly  after  Leigh  Hunt's 
release  from  prison.  It  was  greatly  and  deservedly  admired,  but  it 
could  not  prove  very  remunerative  to  him.  In  order  to  meet  de- 
mands which  had  been  accruing  upon  him,  he  also  published  **The 
Indicator,"  but  want  of  funds  prevented  the  publication  being  ad- 
vertised and  pushed  as  it  deserved.  The  Examiner  was  now  de- 
clining in  circulation  and  receipts,  for  the  party  against  which  it 
struggled  was  entirely  in  the  ascendant.  We  fear,  also,  that  its 
business  management  must  have  suffered  from  the-  long  imprison- 
ment of  the  two  proprietors,  as  well  as  from  the  acknowledged  de- 
ficiency of  at  least  one  of  them  in  business  capacity.  **  I  had  never 
attended,"  says  Leigh  Hunt,  "not  only  to  the  business  part  of  the 


U2  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Examiner,  but  to  the  simplest  money  matter  that  stared  at  me  on 
the  face  of  it.  I  could  not  tell  anybody  who  asked  me  what  was  the 
price  of  its  stamp  !  Do  I  boast  of  this  ignorance  ?  Alas  !  Alas  !  I 
have  no  such  respect  for  the  pedantry  of  absurdity  as  that.  I  blush 
for  it ;  and  I  only  record  it  out  of  a  sheer,  painful  movement  of  con- 
Kcience,as  a  warning  to  those  young  authors  who  might  be  led  to  look 
on  such  folly  as  a  fine  thing  ;  which,  at  all  events,  is  what  I  never 
thought  it  myself.  I  did  not  think  about  it  at  all,  except  to  avoid 
the  thought ;  and  I  only  wish  that  the  strangest  accidents  of  educa- 
tion, and  the  most  inconsiderate  habit  of  taking  books  for  the  only 
end  of  life,  had  not  conspired  to  make  me  so  ridiculous.  I  am  feeling 
the  consequences  at  this  moment,  in  pangs  whichi  cannot  explain, 
and  which  I  may  not  live  long  to  escape." 

In  the  winter  of  1821  Leigh  Hunt  set  sail,  with  his  wife  and  seven 
children,  on  a  voyage  to  Italy,  to  join  Byron  and  Shelley,  then  re- 
siding there.  After  a  tremendous  storm  the  vessel  in  which  they 
sailed  was  driven  into  Dartmouth,  where  they  re-landed,  and  passed 
on  to  Plymouth,  where  they  waited  until  May,  1822,  and  from 
thence  sailed  to  Leghorn.  The  residence  in  Italy  was  not  pleasant ; 
it  was  embittered  by  the  death  of  Shelley  and  of  Keats,  and  the  ob- 
vious alienation  of  Byron.  The  tedium  was  not  relieved  by  the 
pleasures  which  opulence  supplies,  for,  from  this  time,  Leigh  Hunt 
seems  to  have  been  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  poverty.  Everything 
that  he  touched  failed.  The  Liberal,  a  quarterly  publication 
brought  out  by  him  while  in  Italy,  reached  only  the  fourth  number, 
though  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Hazlitt  wrote  for  it,  as  well  as  himself. 
The  Literary  Examiner,  a  new  publication  set  up  by  his  brother, 
also  failed  ;  and  the  political  Examiner,  the  newspaper,  was  now  in 
the  crisis  of  its  difficulties  ;  it  shortly  after  passed  into  other  hands, 
when  it  prospered.  Leigh  Hunt,  in  the  midst  of  these  failures, 
grew  sick  of  Italy."  *'  I  was  ill,  unhappy,  and  in  a  perpetual  low 
fever,"  he  says.  He  longed  for  the  sight  of  English  hedge-rows  and 
green  fields,  to  wander  through  paths  leading  over  field  and  stile, 
across  hay-fields  in  June,  and  through  woods  full  of  wild  flowers. 
**  To  me,"  he  says,  "Italy  had  a  certain  hard  taste  in  the  mouth.  The 
mountains  were  too  bare,  its  outlines  too  sharp,  its  lanes  too  stony, 
its  voices  too  loud,  its  long  summer  too  dusty.  I  longed  to  bathe 
myself  in  the  grassy  balm  of  my  native  fields." 

He  reached  home'^in  lb23,  and  commenced  anew  a  struggle  with 
difficulties.  Perhaps  "straggle  "  is  too  strong  a  word.  Leigh  Hunt 
seems  to  have  been  playing  with  life,  even  with  its  sorrows,  all  the 
way  through.  He  was  not  a  man  to  grapple  with  a  difficulty  and 
overcome  it;  but  to  float  alongside  of  it  rather  carelessly,  and  say 
pleasant  things  About  it.  He  had  a  good  deal  of  his  father's  West 
Indian  temperament  in  him,  and  loved  to  lie  basking  in  the  sun, 
building  castles  in  the  air.  He  wrote  occasional  essays  and  poems 
from  time  to  time,  for  monthly  magazines;  and,  for  a  bookseller,  who 


LEIGH  HUNT.  143 

had  assisted  him  to  return  to  England,  a  novel  called  ''Sir  alph 
Esher."  He  also  obtained  pecuniary  assistance  from  friends,  and 
struggled  on  the  best  way  he  could.  He  started  a  new  periodical, 
The  Companion,  which  did  not  live  long;  then  the  Tatler,  a  daily 
literary  and  theatrical  paper,  which  nearly  killed  him,  as  he  wrote 
it  all;  Chat  of  the  Week  was  tried,  and  failed  too.  A  subscription 
list  was  got  up  for  a  new  edition  of  his  poems,  which  helped  him 
somewhat.  Then  he  wrote  for  the  True  Sun,  which  also  died;  next 
he  edited  the  Monthly  Keporter,  which  did  not  survive  long.  The 
London  Journal  lived  through  two  volumes,  and  then  gave  up  the 
ghost;  it  was  too  literary,  too  refined  and  recherche,  for  the  mass  of 
cheap  readers;  it  aimed  too  high  above  their  heads.  And  yet  it 
contains  some  of  Leigh  Hunt's  best  writings,  which  will  perhaps  live 
the  longest.  Next  he  wrote  "Captain  Sword  and  Captain  Pen,"  the 
** Legend  of  Florence"  (a  play),  and  several  other  plays  not  yet 
printed.  All  this  mass  of  literary  work  barely  enabled  him  to  live, 
eked  out  though  it  was  by  frequent  writings'in  the  reviews.  The 
"Legend  of  Florence"  was  his  most  profitable  work,  bringing  him 
in  about  two  hundred  pounds;  and  perhaps,  too,  it  helped  him  to 
his  pension.  He  had,  before  this,  on  two  occasions  received  two 
hundred  pounds  from  the  Eoj^al  Bounty  Fund,  to  enable  him  to  live. 
His  more  recent  works  were  "The  Palfrey,"  "Imagiration  and 
Fancy,*'  "Wit  and  Humor,"  "Stories  from  the  Indian  Poets,"  the 
*'  Jar  of  Honey,"  the  "Book  for  a  Corner,"  and  "The  Town."  Sev- 
eral of  these  originally  appeared  as  contributions  to  the  magazines 
and  newspai^ers.  His  book  entitled  "Lord  Byron  and  his  Contem- 
poraries "  was  published  many  years  ago,  and  it  was  one  that  its 
author  himself  wished  to  be  forgotten,  and  we  say  no  more  of  it  here. 
Notwithstanding  the  life  of  ill-health,  and  of  difficulty,  which 
Leigh  Hunt  led,  it  may  be  pronounced  on  the  whole  to  have  been  a 
happy  life.  It  is  the  heart  that  makes  life  sweet,  not  the  purse, — it  is 
pure  and  happy  thoughts,  a  well-stored  mind,  and  a  genial  nature, 
full  of  sympathy  for  human  kind.  In  all  these  respects,  a  happy  lot 
has  been  Leigh  Hunt's,  though  wealth  has  been  denied  him.  There 
are  few  men  who  could  say,  like  him,  towards  the  close  of  life:  "  I  am 
not  aware  that  I  have  a  single  enemy,  and  I  accept  the  fortunes, 
good  and  bad,  which  have  occurred  to  me,  with  the  same  disposition 
to  believe  them  the  best  that  could  have  happened,  whether  for  the 
correction  of  what  was  wrong  in  me,  or  for  the  improvement  of  what 
was  right.  I  have  never  lost  cheerfulness  of  mind  or  opinion.  What 
evils  there  are,  I  find  to  be,  for  the  most  part,  relieved  with  many 
consolations;  some  I  find  to  be  necessary  to  the  requisite  amount  of 
good;  and  every  one  of  them  I  find  come  to  a  termination,  for  either 
they  are  cured  and  live,  or  are  killed  and  die;  and  in  the  latter  case  I 
Bee  no  evidence  to  prove  that  a  little  finger  of  them  aches  any  more." 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

Nor  Child,  nor  man, 
Nor  youth,  nor  sage,  I  nnd  my  head  Is  gray. 
For  I  have  lost  the  race  I  never  ran ; 

A  rathe  December  bUghts  my  lagging  May ; 
And  still  I  am  a  child ;  though  I  be  old, 
Time  Is  my  debtor  for  my  years  untold. 

Sonnets. 

THE  lifo  of  Hartley  Coleridge  reminds  me  of  a  painful  dream. 
There  was  little  health  or  soundness  in  it.  The  man  was 
conscious  of  this  himself,  and  was  full  of  lamentations  as  to 
his  want  of  purpose  and  self-control,  which  he  took  no  pains  to 
amend.  That  he  had  great  talents  will  be  conceded, — that  he  had 
what  is  called  genius  is  not  so  clear.  But  what  powers  he  had  he 
grievously  misused.  He  was  always  callinp;  on  Jupiter,  but  would 
not  help  himself.  In  his  poems  he  preached  purity,  and  in  his 
life  he  practiced  self-indulgence.  Is  such  a  career  excusable  in 
any  man, — in  a  day-laborer  or  a  shopkeeper?  then  how  much  less 
excusable  in  one  who  was  competent  to  be  a  great  teacher,  and 
whose  talents  were  equal  to  the  highest  vocation? 

We  hold  that  the  literary  man  or  poet  is  as  much  under  obliga- 
tion to  lead  a  pure  and  virtuous  life  as  any  other  man,  and  that  the 
fact  of  his  talent  or  his  genius  is  not  a  palliation,  but  an  a^jfgravation, 
of  offenses  committed  by  him  against  public  morality.  Intellectual 
powers  are  gifts  committed  to  men  to  subserve  their  own  happiness, 
as  well  as  to  promote  the  enlightenment  of  their  kind.  Poetic 
powers,  if  employed  by  the  possessor  merely  in  dreamy  indolence, 
and  in  the  indulgence  of  the  luxury  of  imaginative  thinking,  are 
not  rightfully,  but  wrongfully,  applied.  In  such  a  case  the  poet's 
enjoyment  is  sensual  and  selfish.     He  may  spend  his  time  in  ar- 

144 


HAPiTLEY  COLERIDGE.  145 

ranging  phrases,— embodying  beautiful  ideas  it  may  be;  but  all  the 
while  he  is  not  so  much  discovering,  enforcing,  or  disseminating 
truth,  as  luxuriating  in  his  own  tastes.  If  he  spends  his  life  in  the 
meantime  wastefully  and  hurtfuUy,  his  great  gifts  are  naught,  and 
might  as  well  not  have  been.  •  What  is  thought  (fr  ttiinking  worth, 
unless  it  help  forward  the  life,  and  is  illustrated  in  the  life  ?  What 
are  poetic  dreams  or  imaginings  if  the  man's  daily  conduct  be  at 
constant  variance  with  them  ? 

It  used^to  be  too  much  the  case  with  the  poets  of  a  former  age,  to 
claim  a  kind  of  immunity  from  the  ordinary  laws  of  life.  The  poet 
used  to  be  pictured  as  a  man  out  at  elbows.  This  old  notion  might 
be  a  vulgar  one,  but  it  must  have  been  formed  on  some  basis  of  ex- 
perience. Hogarth's  picture  of  the  **  Distressed  Poet "  probably  was 
not  far  from  the  truth.  The  literary  character  has  become  greatly 
elevated  since  then,  and  the  lives  of  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Moore, 
Rogers,  and  others,  amply  prove  that  poetic  gifts  are  not  incompati- 
ble wuth  a  fair  share  6i  ordinary  worldly  prudence  ;  that  authors,  as 
a  class,  are  not  necessarily  poor,  hungry,  and  drunken.  But  there 
are  still  to  be  met  with,  here  and  there,  young  dapperlings  of  poets, 
apt  at  stringing  phrases  together  about  unrequited  f^enius,  and 
ready  to  cite  the  fate  of  Burns,  Savage,  and  Chatterton, — perhaps 
even  to  contemplate  with  sympathy,  if  not  with  feelings  akin  to  ad- 
miration, the  lives  of  such  as  Hartley  Coleridge.  Their  sentimental 
reveries  are  full  of  despair,  sighs,  cries  of  revolt,  and  hopelessness; 
and  if  you  say  a  word  in  deprecation  of  such  a  strain,  they  cry  out, 
"Be  still!  I  am  a  poet; — you!  you  are  only  flesh  and  blood;  you 
don't  comprehend  me:— leave  me  to  my  illusions."  But  really" in- 
telligence and  poetry  are  not  to  be  regarded  apart  from  morality.  It 
is  not  enough  that  a  man  is  intelligent,  and  writes  delicious  verse. 
If  he  is  a  drunkard  or  immoral,  we  cannot  excuse  him  any  more 
than  an  ordinary  man.  Genius  affords  no  palliation  in  such  a  case; 
where  a  man's  talents  are  great,  his  blame  is  only  the  more  if  he 
egregiously  misuses  them. 

And  yet  w^e  admit  that  much  is  to  be  said  in  palliation  of  the  life 
of  Hartley  Coleridge.  Doubtless,  our  constitution  and  character  in 
no  small  degree  depend  upon  the  originators  of  our  being, — and 
not  only  so,  but  our  tastes,  idiosyncrasies,  sympathies,  habits,  and 
even  modes  of  thought  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  with  his  abound- 
ing gifts,  was  improvident,  feeble  of  purpose,  and  self-indulgent  to 
excess;  and  his  son  seems  to  have  inherited  all  his  frailties,  together 
with  a  considerable  portion  of  his  genius.  The  child  was  bom  in 
dreams,  he  lived  in  dreams,  and  in  dreams  he  died.  He  is  said  to 
have  puzzled  himself,  when  a  child,  about  the  reality  of  existence  ! 
Sitting  on  the  knee  of  old  Jackson,  Southey's  humble  friend,  he 
would  pour  out  the  most  strange  speculations,  and  weave  the 
wildest  inventions.  When  only  eight  years  old,  he  found  a  spot 
upon  the  globe,  which  he  peopled  with  an  imaginary  nation,  to 


146  BRIEF  BIOGEAPHIES. 

whom  he  gave  an  imaginary  nam'^,  imaginary  language,  imaginary 
laws,  and  an  imaginary  senate.  These  day-dreams  he  is  said  to  have 
in  course  of  time  believed  as  real;  and  his  relations  encouraged  the 
dreamy  boy,  and  made  a  wonder  of  him.  His  dreams  even  became 
a  more  real  world  to  him  than  the  actual  world  in  which  he  lived. 
Then  his  father  early  crammed  him  with  Greek,  beginning  at  ten 
years  old,  though  his  instruction  in  this,  as  in  other  branches  of 
knowledge,  was  interrupted  and  desultory.  He  had  always  abund- 
ant time  to  build  his  castles  in  the  air,  and  to  carry  on  the  affairs 
of  his  dream-land,  which  he  called  Ejuxria.  He  was  constantly 
forming  **plans,"~dreaming  of  doing  things  which  were  never  to 
bo  done, — until  the  practice  became  at  length  habitual  with  him, 
and  was  gradually  welded  into  his  life. 

Living  in  this  dream-land  of  his,  the  boy  became  morbidly  shy. 
He  never  played  with  his  fellows.  He  passed  his  time  in  reading, 
walking,  dreaming  to  himself  or  telling  his  dreams  to  others.  His 
undo,  Southey,  used  to  tell  him  that  he  had  tico  let  hands.  Ho 
lived  not  the  life  of  other  boys,  but  spun  romances  and  tales  for 
them  of  immense  length,  and  kept  them  awake  for  hours  together, 
when  they  lay  in  bed  at  night,  during  their  recital.  For  the  boy 
had  already  the  gift  of  extraordinary  powersof  speech,— another  in- 
heritance fr(3m  his  gifted  father.  But  lie  never  took  a  high  place  at 
school.  Boys  of  very  commonplace  talents,  but  with  appli- 
cation and  industry,  rarely  failed  to  take  the  lead  of  him. 
••  Unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt  not  excel,"  might  be  said  of  his 
whole  life.  *' While  at  school,"  says  his  brother,  "a  certain  in- 
firmity of  will,  the  specific  evil  of  his  life,  had  already  shown  itself. 
His  sensibility  w^as  intense,  and  ho  had  not  wherewithal  to  control 
it.  He  could  not  open  a  letter  without  trembling.  He  shrank 
from  mental  pain,— he  was  beyond  measure  impatient  of  con- 
straint. He  was  liable  to  paroxysms  of  rage,  often  the  disguise  of 
pity,  self-accusation,  or  other  painful  emotion, — anger  it  could 
hardly  be  called,— during  which  he  bit  his  arm  or  fint^er  violently. 
He  yielded,  as  it  were  unconsciously,  to  slight  temptations, — slight 
in  themselves,  and  slight  to  him, — as  if  swayed  by  a  mechanical 
impulse  apart  from  his  own  volition.  It  looked  like  an  organic  de- 
fect,— a  congenital  imperfection.  I  do  not  offer  this  as  a  sufficient 
explanation.  There  are  mysteries  in  our  moral  nature  upon  which 
we  can  only  pause  and  doubt 

Hartley  went  to  college  at  Oxford,  where  he  was  supported  by  his 
father's  friends  and  relatives, — for  his  father  was  at  the  time  in  em- 
barrassed circumstances,  and  could  not  afford  the  expense,  could 
scarcely  even  maintain  himself.  He  there  distinguished  himself 
chiefly  by  his  extraordinary  powers  as  aconverserat  "wine-parties," 
where  he  would  hold  forth  by  the  hour  on  any  subject  that  offered. 
He  spent  his  vacations  at  Highgate  or  Keswick,  where  he  had  the 
advantages  of  association  with  many  distinguished  literary  men. 


I 


HAKTLEV  COLERIDGE.  147 


He  "was  still  living  in  dreams, — reading  Wordsworth  more  than  the 
classics,  and  fitting  himself  rather  for  the  career  of  a  dreamer,  than 
for  the  life  of  a  working,  active  man.  He  succeeded,  however,  in 
obtaining  a  fellowship  at  Oriel,  which  was  the  source  of  no  small 
joy  to  his  friends.  But  he  enjoyed  his  position  only  for  a  very 
short  time.  *'  At  the  close  of  his  probationary  year,  saj^s  his  brother, 
*'he  was  judged  to  have  forfeited  his  Oriel  Fellowship,  on  the 
ground,  mainly,  of  intemperance."  This,  we  shall  find,  was  the 
great  blemish  of  his  after-life. 

Then  he  went  to  London,  to  maintain  himself  by  his  pen  ;  but 
his  dreamy,  purposeless  character  accompanied  him  :  he  failed  to 
exert  himself, — wanted  industry, — made  plans,  which  remained 
such, — procrastinated  from  day  to  day, — and  of  course  he  failed. 
The  successful  literary  man  must  be  a  hard  worker,  and  not  a 
mere  dreamer ;  but  this  young  man  had  never  trained  himself  to 
habits  of  industry,  nor  had  any  one  else  so  trained  him  ;  so  he 
failed, --taking  refuge  in  intoxication,  and  often  disappearing  for 
dfiys  together.  For  about  two  years  he  resided  in  London,  occasion- 
ally contributing  small  pieces  to  the  London  Magazine ;  but  thia 
scrambling  life  only  served  to  aggravate  his  weaknesses,  and  the 
scheme  was  then  proposed  of  taking  a  school  for  him  in  the  north 
of  England.  Hartley's  *' genius"  revolted  at  the  proposal,  but  at 
last  he  consented,  commenced  the  work  without  heart,  without  pur- 
pose, and  failed  again.  That  was  at  Ambleside,  whither  his  friends 
had  thought  it  advisable  now  to  remove  him.  His  habits  remained 
tlie  same,  and  he  occasionally,  though  undesignedly,  led  others  into 
the  same  excess  with  himself.  Yet  he  was  not  without  bodily  and 
intellectual  strength,  had  he  but  chosen  to  use  it.  In  one  of  his  let- 
ters to  his  brother  he  says  :  *'  I  cannot  find  that  either  my  cares  or 
my  follies  have  materially  diminished  my  bodily  or  intellectual 
•vigor."  He  was  perfectly  conscious  of  the  folly  and  unworthiness  of 
the  course  he  was  pursuing,  and  often  overflowed  with  wise  moral 
reflections  on  the  subject.  But  he  would  make  no  effort  to  rise,  and 
only  sunk  to  lower  depths.  One  of  the  most  eminent  of  his  friends 
on  the  Lakes  relates  that  he  latterly  ceased  to  call  on  him, — **  it  was 
so  ridiculous  and  pitiable  to  find  the  poor,  harmless  creature,  amid 
the  finest  scenery  in  the  world,  and  in  beautiful  summer  weather, 
dead  drunk  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

A  publisher  at  Leeds  having  engaged  him  to  write  a  book  on  the 
•*  Worthies  of  Yorkshire,"  found  that  the  work  proceeded  so  slowly, — 
Hartley  procrastinating  from  day  to  day,  as  was  his  wont, — that  he 
induced  him  to  go  over  to  Leeds  and  write  it  there.  While  at  Leeds, 
his  life  was  of  the  usual  description,  fitful  in  labor,  irresolute,  often 
desponding,  and  as  often  breaking  off  into  fits  of  dissipation  and 
wandering.  He  would  disappear  for  days  together,  and  the  prints 
er's  boys  were  sent  scouring  about  the  country  in  search  of  him,-r 
Bometimes  finding  him  in  a  hedge-bottom,  at  other  times  in  an  o1>> 


148  BKIEF  BIOGPcAPniES. 

scTire  beer-shop.  When,  after  one  of  these  -wanderings,  he  retraced 
his  steps  home  by  himself,  he  would  hang  about  the  house  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  not  having  the  courage  to  enter,  until  some  mes- 
senger, sent  out  to  watch  for  his  return,  would  lead  him  back,— often 
in  a  pitiable  state.  All  this  was  very  lamentable;  and  what  is  the 
more  extraordinary,  during  this  time  his  brain  was  teeming  with 
fancy,  with  poet's  dreams,  with  beautiful  thoughts,  such  as  an  angel 
of  purity  might  have  entertained.  Never,  periiaps,  was  there  a  life 
more  utterly  at  variance  with  his  thoughts  than  that  of  Hartley 
Coleridge. 

It  was  so  to  the  end.  He  deplored  his  habits,  but  did  not  change 
them.  He  lamented  his  indolence,  but  would  not  work.  His  poetry 
breathed  aspirations  after  purity,  but  his  life  remained  impure  and 
groveling.  And  yet  he  was  beloved  by  all, — loved  because  of  his 
amiability,  his  inoffensiveness,  his  almost  helplessness.  He  re- 
mained (to  use  his  own  words) 

Yet  to  the  last  a  nigged  wrinkled  thing. 

To  which  young  sweetness  did  delight  to  cling. 

Children  doted  on  Hartley  Coleridge, — himself  a  child.  Nature 
in  him  appeared  reversed;  for  in  his  infancy  he  was  a  man  in  the 
maturity  of  Lis  fancy,  and  in  his  advanced  years  he  was  as  a  help- 
less child  among  men, — a  child  with  gray  hairs,  for  his  head  early 
became  silver-white,  though  the  gray  hairs  bro^lght  no  wisdom  with 
them.  And  yet  his  literary  culture  was  great;  his  knowledge  of 
books  was  immense;  and  the  elegant  manner  in  which  he  would 
dilate  upon  lofty  themes  charmed  all  hearers.  In  the  aspect  of 
nature,  his  converse  was  like  that  of  a  god. 

The  only  after  incidents  that  occurred  worthy  of  note  in  Hartley 
Coleridge's  life  were  his  temporary  occupation  as  a  schoolmaster  at 
Sedburgh,  and  his  appearance  as'a  contributor  to  Woxon's  edition 
of  some  of  the  older  British  poets, — for  which,  after  great  procrasti- 
nation, he  wrote  the  introduction  to  the  works  of  Massinger.  A  simi- 
lar introduction  to  the  works  of  Ford  was  committed  to  him,  and 
was  in  hand  for  years,  but  he  had  not  sufiicient  industry  nor  appli- 
cation to  complete  it.  But  he  occasionally  contributed  a  paper  to 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  when  the  fit  of  writing  came  upon  him.  A 
collection  of  these  articles,  with  his  *•  Marginalia,"  written  by  him 
in  books  while  reading  them,  has  recently  been  published. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  this  blurred  and  blotted  life.  A  few 
months  before  his  death,  he  wrote  the  following  lines  in  a  copy  of 
his  poems,  alluding  to  his  intention  of  publishing  another  volume, 
which  he  had  bound  himself  under  bond  to  furnish,  and,  we  have 
been  informed,  had  even  been  paid  for,  but  which  was  never  fur- 
nished.   The  lines  are  entitled 


H  \EJrLEY  COLERIDGE.  U9 

FOLLOWED  BY  ANOTHER. 

O  \TOtul  impotence  of  weak  resolve, 
Kecorded  rashly  to  ttie  Wiiter  s  shame ! 
Days  puss  away,  and  lime  s  large  orbs  revolve 
And  every  day  beholds  me  still  Lhe  same ; 
Till  oft-neglected  purpose  loses  aim, 
And  hope  becomes  a  flat  unheeded  He, 
And  conscience,  weary  with  the  work  of  blame, 
In  seeming  slumber  droops  her  wistful  eye, 
As  if  she  would  I'esign  her  unregarded  ministry. 

It  only  remains  to  note  the  death  of  this  poor  fellow-being.  It 
occurred  on  the  6th  of  Januar3%  1849,  when  in  his  fifty-third  year. 
♦♦He  died  the  death  of  a  strong  man,  his  bodily  frame  being  of  the 
finest  construction,  and  capable  of  great  endurance."  The  following 
incident  relative  to  Wordsworth  is  related  in  the  biography  by 
Hartley  Coleridge's  brother : 

"The  day  following  Hartley's  death,  "Wordsworth  walked  over 
with  me  to  Grasmere,  to  the  churchyard, — a  plain  inclosure  of  the 
olden  time,  surrounding  the  old  village  church,  in  which  lay  the 
remains  of  his  wife's  sister,  his  nephew,  and  his  beloved  daughter. 
Here,  having  desired  the  sexton  to  measure  out  the  ground  for  his 
own  and  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  grave,  he  bade  him  measure  out  the 
space  of  a  third  grave,  for  my  .brother,  immediately  beyond. 

♦•  'When  I  lifted  up  my  eyes  from  my  daughter's  grave,' he  ex- 
claimed, ♦  he  was  standing  there  ! '  pointing  to  the  spot  where  my 
brother  had  stood  on  the  sorrowful  occasion  to  which  lie  alluded. 
Then,  turning  to  the  sexton,  he  said,  '  Keep  the  ground  for  us, — we 
are  old  people,  and  it  cannot  be  for  long.' 

"In  the  grave  thus  marked  out  my  brother's  remains  were  laid  on 
the  following  Thursday,  and  in  little  more  than  a  twelvemonth  his 
venerable  and  venerated  friend  was  brought  to  occupy  his  own. 
They  lie  in  the  southeast  angle  of  the  churchyard,  not  far  from  a 
group  of  trees,  with  the  little  beck,  that  feeds  the  lake  with  its  clear 
water,  murmuring  by  their  side.  Around  them  are  the  quiet  moun- 
tains  It  was  a  winter  s  day  when  my  brother  was  carried  to  his 

last  home,  cold,  but  fine,  as  I  noted  at  the  time,  with  a  few  slight 
scuds  of  sleet  aud  gleams  of  sunshine,*  one  of  which  greeted  us  as  we 
entered  Grasmere,  and  another  smiled  brightly  through  the  church 
window.     May  it  rest  upon  his  memory  ! " 

We  can  add  nothing  to  this.  The  recital  is  very  touching,  and  is 
done  throughout  with  the  extremest  delicacy  and  grace  by  his 
brother,  who  would  lovingly  palliate  the  errors  of  the  departed. 
He  sleeps  well  by  Wordsworth's  side,  Wordsworth  having  been  the 
model  of  all  his  poetry,  and  standing  to  him  instead  of  a  father 
through  the  greater  part  of  his  unhappy  life. 

Hartley  Coleridge's  poetry  reminds  the  reader  of  Wordsworth  in 
nearly  every  line,  though  it  is  Wordsworth  diluted  ;  and  at  its  best, 


150  BKIEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

the  Lake  poetry  cannot  bear  ranch  dilution.  Excepting  in  the  son- 
nets which  relate  to  his  own  personal  nnhappiness,  the  poems  sound 
like  the  echoes  of  other  poets,  rather  than  welling  warm  from  the 
vv liter's  own  heart.  And  though,  in  the  personal  sonnets  referred 
to,  }ie  paints  his  purposeless  lite  and  blighted  career  in  terse  and 
poetic  language,  it  were  perhaps  better  that  they  had  not  been  writ- 
ten at  all.  His  poems  addressed  to  childhood  are  perhaps  the  most 
charming  things  in  the  collection.  For  poor  Hartley  loved  children, 
and  they  returned  his  lo\  e.  He  loved  women,  too,  but  at  a  distance; 
and  his  despondency  at  his  own  want  of  personal  attractions  for 
them  is  a  frequent  theme  of  his  poetry. 

Tiie  melancholy  history  of  Hartley  Coleridge  is  not  without  its 
moral.  Jt  was  perhaps  his  misfortune  to  be  the  son  of  a  poet,  who 
gave  little  heed  to  the  healthy  training  of  his  children.  The  child's 
endowment  of  fancy,  though  a  rare  one,  proved  only  a  source  of  un- 
happiness  in  after-life,  having  been  cultivated,  as  it  was,  to  the 
entire  disregard  of  those  other  practical  qualities  which  fit  a  man  for 
useful  intercourse  with  the  world.  Living  in  a  state  of  dreaminess 
and  abstraction,  his  mind  became  unnerved,  and  his  manly  powers 
fatally  imi^aired.  He  indulged  in  poetic  thought  rather  as  an  effem- 
inate luxury  than  as  a  means  of  self-culture  or  a  relaxation  from  the 
severer  toils  and  duties  of  life.  He  was,  however,  fully  aware  of  the 
wrongness  of  his  course,  as  appears  from  his  numerous  melancholy 
plaints  in  stanza  and  sonnets.  But  he  made  no  effort  at  self-help ;  he 
met  adversity  and  temptation  half-way,  and  laid  himself  down  at  their 
feet,  a  willing  victim.  Though  we  ought  to  be  tolerant  of  the  frail- 
ties of  genius,  we  cannot  overlook  its  sins  and  follies,  which  are  but 
too  often  seized  upon  as  excuses  for  excess  by  those  who  are  less 
gifted.  We  must  bear  in  mind  that  high  powers  are  committed  to 
man  for  noble  uses, — that  from  him  to  whom  much  is  given  much 
shall  bo  required, — that  however  poetic  may  be  a  man's  thoughts,  he 
is  not  thereby  absolved  from  the  observance  of  the  practical  virtues 
of  life,  or  from  living  soberly,  jDurely,  and  religiously  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, the  man  of  high  thinkings  is  expected  to  live  thus  daily,  and 
to  make  his  life  the  practical  record  of  his  thoughts.  Though  there 
were  many  things  to  love  about  Hartley  Coleridge,  we  trust  his  sad 
career  may  not  be  without  its  lesson  and  its  warning  to  others. 


DR.   KITTO. 


NOT  long  since,  -we  were  attracted  by  the  annonncement  In  a 
second-hand  book  catalogue,  of  "Essays  and  Letters,  by 
Dr.  Kitto,  written  in  a  Workhouse."  As  one  of  the  celebrities 
of  the  day,  the  editor  of  the  "  Pictorial  Bible,"  "Cyclopjedia  of  Bibli- 
cal Literature,"  and  many  other  highly  important  works,  which  have 
obtained  an  extensive  circulation,  and  are  greatly  prized,  we  could 
not  but  feel  interested  in  this  little  book,  and  purchased  it  accord- 
ingly. It  has  proved  full  of  curious  interest,  and  from  it  we  learned, 
that,  besides  having  endured  from  an  early  age  the  serious  privation 
of  hearing,  the  author  has  also  suffered  the  lot  of  poverty,  and,  by 
dint  of  gallant  perseverance  and  manly  courage,  he  w^as  enabled  to 
rise  above  and  triumph  over  both  privations. 

It  is  indeed  true  that  Dr.  Kitto's  first  book  was  "written  in  a 
workhouse."  And  we  must  here  tell  the  reader  something  of  his 
early  history.  The  father  of  Dr.  Kitto  was  a  working  mason  at 
Plymouth,  whither  he  had  been' attracted  by  the  demand  for  labor- 
era  of  all  descriptions  at  that  place,  about  the  early  part  of  the  pres- 
ent century.  John  Kitto  was  born  there  in  1804.  In  his  youth  he 
received  very  little  school  education,  though  he  learned  to  read,  and 
had  already  taken  some  interest  in  books,  when  the  serious  acci- 
dent occurred  which  deprived  him  of  his  hearing.  At  that  time  his 
parents  were  in  very  distressed  circumstances,  and,  though  little 
more  than  twelve  years  of  age,  the  boy  was  employed  by  his  father 
to  help  him  as  a  laborer,  in  carrying  stones,  mortar,  and  such  like. 
One  day  in  February,  1817,  when  stepping  from  the  ladder  to  the 
roof  of  a  house  undergoing  repair  in  Batter  street,  the  little  lad, 
with  a  load  of  slates  on  his  head,  lost  his  balance,  and,  falling  back, 
was  precipitated  from  a  height  of  thirty-five  feet  into  the  paved 
court  below  1 

1(^1 


152  BBIEF  BIOGEAPHIES, 

Dr.  Kitto  Las  himself  given  a  most  vivid  account  of  the  details  of 
the  accident  in  the  interesting  work  by  him,  on  **The  Lost  Senses, — 
Deafness,"  some  time  since  published  by  Charles  Knight. 

"Of  what  followed,"  says  he,  *' I  know  nothing.  For  ctfie  moment, 
indeed,  I  awoke  from  that  deathlike  state,  and  then  found  tliat  my 
father  attended  by  a  crowd  of  people,  was  bearing  me  homeward  in 
his  arms  ;  but  I  had  then  no  recollection  of  what  had  happened, 
and  at  once  relapsed  into  a  state  of  unconsciousness. 

"In  this  state  I  remained  for  a  fortnight,  as  I  afterwards  learned. 
These  days  were  a  blank  in  my  life;  I  could  never  briug  any  recol- 
lections to  bear  upon  them;  and  when  I  awoke  one  morning  to  con- 
sciousness, it  was  as  from  anight  of  sleep.  I  saw  that  it  was  at  least 
two  hours  later  than  my  usual  time  of  rising,  snd  marveled  thati  had 
been  suffered  to  sleep  so  late.  I  attempted  to  spring  up  in  bed,  and 
was  astonished  to  find  that  I  could  not  even  move.  The  utter  pros- 
tration of  my  strength  subdued  all  curiosity  within  me.  I  e:xperi- 
enced  no  pain,  but  I  felt  that  I  was  weak;  I  saw  that  I  was  treated  as 
an  invalid,  and  acquiesced  in  my  condition,  though  some  time 
passed — more  time  than  the  reader  would  imagine— before  I  could 
piece  together  my  broken  recollections,  so  as  to  comprehend  it. 

"  I  was  very  slow  in  learning  that  my  hearing  was  entirely  gone. 
The  unusual  stillness  of  all  things  was  grateful  to  me  in  my  utter  ex- 
haustion; and  if,  in  this  half-awakened  state,  a  thought  of  the  mat- 
ter entered  my  mind,  I  ascribed  it  to  the  unusual  care  and  success  of 
my  friendsin  preserving  silence  around  me.  I  saw  them  talking, 
indeed,  to  one  another,  and  thought  that  out  of  regard  to  my  feeble 
condition,  they  spoke  m  whispers,  because  I  heard  them  not.  The 
truth  was  revealed  to  me  in  consequence  of  my  solicitude  about  a 
book  ("Kirby's  Wonderful  Magazine")  which  had  much  interested  mo 
on  the  day  of  my  fall I  asked  for  this  book  with  much  earnest- 
ness, and  was  answered  by  signs  which  I  could  not  comprehend. 

"  •  Why  do  you  not  speak?'  I  cried;  *pray  let  me  have  the  book.' 

•*  This  seemed  to  create  some  confusion;  and  at  length  some  one, 
more  clever  than  the  rest,  hit  upon  the  happy  expedient  of  writing 
upon  a  slate,  that  the  book  had  been  reclaimed  by  the  owner,  and 
that  I  could  not  in  my  weak  state  be  allowed  to  read. 

**  *But,*  said  I,  in  great  astonishment,  *  why  do  you  write  to  me, 
why  not  speak ?    Speak,  speak! ' 

"Those  who  stood  around  the  bed  exchanged  significant  looks  of 
concern,  and  the  writer  soon  displayed  upon  his  slate  the  awful 
words,  *  You  are  deaf.'  " 

Various  remedies  were  tried,  but  without  avail.  Some  serious  or- 
ganic injury  had  been  done  to  the  auditory  nerve  by  the  fall,  and 
hearing  was  never  restored;  poor  Kitto  remained  stone-deaf.  The 
boy,  thus  thrown  upon  himself,  devoted  his  spare  time— his  time 
was  now  all  spare  time — to  reading.  Books  gradually  became 
a  source  of  interest  to  him,  and  he  soon  exhausted  the  small  stocks 


DR.  KITTO.  153 

of  his  neighbors.  Books  were  then  much  rarer  than  now,  and  read- 
ing was  regarded  as  an  occult  art,  in  which  few  persons  of  the 
working  class  could  venture  to  indulge. 

The  cirqum stances  of  Kitto's  parents  still  continued  very  poor. 
This,  with  other  sources  of  domestic  disquietude,  rendered  his  po- 
sition for  some  years  very  unfortunate.  At  length,  in  1819,  about 
two  years  from  the  date  of  his  accident,  on  an  application  for  relief 
from  the  guardians  of  the  poor  of  Plymouth,  young  Kitto  was  taken 
from  his  parents  and  placed  among  the  boys  of  the  workhouse. 
There  he  was  instructed  in  the  art  of  shoemaking,  with  the  view  of 
enabling  him  thus  to  obtain  his  livelihood,  JHe  was  afterward 
bound  apprentice  to  a  poor  shoemaker  in  the  town,  where  his  posi- 
tion was  very  miserable;  so  much  so,  that  an  inquiry  as  to  the  ap- 
prentice's treatment  w^as  instituted  before  the  magistrates,  the 
result  of  which  was  that  they  discharged  Kitto  from  his  apprentice- 
ship, and  he  was  returned  to  the  workhouse,  where  he  continued 
his  shoemaking.  He  found  a  warm  friend  in  Mr.  Bernard,  the 
clerk  to  the  guardians,  and  also  in  Mr.  Nugent,  the  master  of  the 
school.  From  these  gentlemen  he  obtained  loans  of  books,  mostly 
of  a  religious  character. 

He  remained  in  the  workhouse  about  four  years;  his  deafness 
condemned  him  to  solitude;  for,  deprived  of  speech  and  hearing, 
he  had  not  the  means  of  forming  friends  among  his  companions, 
such  as  they  were.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  possible  enough  that  his 
isolation  from  the  other  occupants  of  the  workhouse  may  have 
preserved  his  purity,  and  encouraged  him  to  cultivate  his  iDtellectual 
powers  to  a  greater  extent  than  he  might  otherwise  have  been 
disposed  to  do.  Thrown  almost  exclusively  upon  his  visual  per- 
ceptions, he  enjoyed  with  an  intensity  of  delight  the  beautiful  face 
of  nature, — the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  and  the  glories  of  earth. 
In  after  life  he  said:  "I  must  not  refuse  to  acknowledge  that, 
when  I  have  beheld  the  moon  'walking  in  brightness,'  my  heart 
has  been  *  secretly  enticed'  into  feelings  having  perhaps  a  nearer 
approach  to  the  old  idolatries  than  I  should  like  to  ascertain.  I 
mention  this  because,  at  this  distant  day,  I  have  no  recoUecton  of 
earlier  emotions  connected  with  the  beautiful  than  those  of  which 
the  moon  was  the  object.  How  often,  some  two  or  three  years  after 
my  affliction,  did  1  not  wander  forth  upon  the  hills,  for  no  other 
purpose  in  the  world  than  to  enjoy  and  feed  upon  the  emotions 
connected  with  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  in  nature.  It  gladdened 
me,  it  filled  my  heart,  I  knew' not  why  or  how,  in  view  *the  great  and 
wide  sea,'  the  wooded  mountain,  and  even  the  silent  town  under  that 
pale  radiance;  and  not  less  to  follow  the  course  of  the  luminary  over 
the  clear  sky,  or  to  trace  its  shaded  pathway  among  and  behind 
the  clouds."  An  exquisitely  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful  in 
trees  was  of  somewhat  later  development,  as  Plymouth,  being  by 
the  sea-side,  is  not  favorable  to  the  growth  of  oaks,  and  had  noth- 


154  BRIEF  BIOGEAPHIES. 

ing  to  boast  of  but  a  few  rows  of  good  elms.  Another  great  source 
of  enjoyment  with  him,  at  that  early  period,  was  to  wander  about 
the  printsellers'  and  picture-framers*  windows,  and  learn  the  pictures 
by  heart,  watching  anxiously  from  day  to  day  for  the  cleaning  out 
of  the  windows,  that  he  might  enjoy  the  luxury  of  a  new  display  of 
prints  and  frontispieces.  He  scoured  the  whole  neighborhood 
with  this  view,  going  over  to  Devonport,  which  he  divided  into 
districts  and  visited  periodically,  for  the  purpose  of  exploring  the 
windows  in  each,  with  leisurely  enjoyment  at  each  visit. 

A  young  man  so  peculiarly  circumstanced,  and  with  such  tastes, 
could  not  remain  altogether  overlooked;  and  he  was  so  fortunate  as 
to  attract  the  notice  of  two  worthy  gentlemen,  who,  when  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  about  twenty  years,  used  every  exertion  to  be- 
friend him.  One  of  these  was  Mr.  Harvey,  a  member  of  the  Society 
of  Friends,  well  known  as  an  accomplished  mathamaticinn,  who 
supplied  young  Kitto  with  books  of  a  superior  quality  to  anything 
be  had  before  had  access  to.  Mr.  Harvey,  when  one  day  in  a  book- 
seller's shop,  saw  a  lad  of  mean  appearance  enter,  and  begin  writing 
a  communication  to  the  master  on  a  slip  of  paper.  On  inquiry,  ho 
found  him  to  be  a  deaf  workhouse  boy,  distinguished  by  his  desire 
for  reading  and  thirst  for  knowledge  of  all  kinds;  and  that  he  had 
come  to  borrow  a  book  which  the  bookseller  had  promised  to  lend 
him.  Inquiries  were  made  about  him,  interest  was  excited  in  his 
behalf,  and  a  subscription  was  raised  for  his  benefit.  He  was  sup- 
plied with  books,  paper,  and  pens,  to  enable  him  to  pursue  his 
literary  occupations;  and  in  a  short  time,  having  secured  the  notice 
of  Mr.  Nettleton,  one  of  tlie  proprietors  of  the  Plymouth  Journal, 
and  also  a  guardian  of  the  poor,  several  of  his  productions  appeared 
in  the  columns  of  that  journal.  The  case  of  the  poor  lad  became 
the  subject  of  general  conversation  in  the  town;  several  gentlemen 
associated  themselyes  together  as  the  guardians  of  the  youth;  after 
which  Kitto  was  removed  from  the  workhouse,  and  obtained  per- 
mission to  read  at  the  public  library.  A  selection  of  his  writings, 
chiefly  written  in  the  workhouse,  was  shortly  afterward  published 
by  subscription,  and  the  young  man  found  himself  in  the  fair  way 
of  advancement.  He  made  rapid  progress  in  learning,  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  Hebrew  and  other  languages,  which  he  imparted  to 
pupils  whom  he  shortly  after  obtained,  the  sons  of  a  gentleman  into 
whose  house  he  was  taken  as  tutor.  He  read  largely  on  all  subjects, 
but  his  early  bias  toward  theological  literature  clung  to  him,  and  ho 
soon  acquired  an  extensive  and  profound  knowledge  of  scriptural 
and  sacred  lore.  At  length  he  was  enabled  to  turn  his  stores  of 
learning  to  rich  account,  in  his  Pictorial  Bible  and  Cyclopedia  of 
Biblical  Literature,  which  many  of  our  readers  may  have  seen.  In 
his  day,  Dr.  Kitto  has  also  been  an  extensive  traveler;  having  been 
in  Palestine,  in  Egypt,  in  the  Morea,  in  Kussia,  and  in  many  coun- 
tries  of  Europe.  .  _ 


DR.  KITTO.  156 

"For  many  years,"  he  says,  "I  had  no  views  towards  literature 
beyond  the  instruction  and  solace  of  my  own  mind;  and  under  these 
views,  and  in  the  absence  of  other  mental  stimulants,  the  pursuit  of  it 
eventually  became  a  passion  which  devoured  all  others.  I  take  no 
merit  for  the  industry  and  application  with  which  I  pursued  this 
obiect,— none  for  the  ingenious  contrivances  by  which  I  sought  to 
shorten  the  hours  of  needful  rest,  that  I  might  have  the  more  time 
for  making  myself  acquainted  with  the  minds  of  other  men.  The 
reward  was  great  and  immediate,  and  I  was  only  preferring  the  grat- 
itication  which  seemed  to  me  the  highest.  Nevertheless,  now  that  I 
am  in  fact  another  being,  having  but  slight  connection — excepting 
in  so  far  as  *  the  child  is  the  father  to  the  man  * — with  my  former 
self  ;  now  that  much  has  become  a  business  which  was  then  simply 
a  joy ;  and  now  that  I  am  gotten  old  in  experiences,  if  not  in  years, — ■ 
it  does  somewhat  move  me  to  look  back  upon  that  poor  and  deaf  boy, 
in  his  utter  loneliness,  devoting  himself  to  objects  in  which  none 
around  him  could  sympathize,  and  to  pursuits  which  none  could 
even  understand.  There  was  a  time— by  far  the  most  dreary  in  that 
portion  of  my  career — when  an  employment  was  found  for  me  [it 
was  when  he  was  apprenticed  to  the  shoemaker,]  to  which  I  pro- 
ceeded about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  from  which  I  returned 
not  until  about  (ten  at  night.  I  murmured  not  at  this,  for  I  knew 
that  life  had  grosser  duties  than  those  to  which  I  would  gladly  have 
devoted  all  my  hours;  and  I  dreamed  not  that  a  life  of  literary  oc- 
cupations might  be  within  the  reach  of  my  hopes.  This  was,  however, 
a  terrible  time  for  me,  as  it  lelt  me  so  little  leisure  for  what  had  be- 
come my  sole  enjoyment,  if  not  my  sole  good.  I  submitted  ;  I  acqui- 
esced; I  tried  hard  to  be  happy;  but  it  would  not  do  ;  my  heart  gave 
way,  notwithstanding  my  manful  struggles  to  keep  it  up,  and  I  was 
very  thoroughly  miserable.  Twelve  hours  I  could  have  borne.  I 
have  tried  it,  and  know  that  the  leisure  which  twelve  hours  might 
have  left  would  have  satisfied  me  ;  but  sixteen  hours ,  and  often  eighteen^ 
out  of  the  twenty-four,  was  d  than  I  could  bear.  To  come  home 
weary  and  sleepy,  and  then  .  ve  only  for  mental  sustenance  the 
moments  which  by  self-imposed  tortures,  could  be  torn  from  need- 
ful rest,  was  a  sore  trial ;  and  now  that  I  look  back  upon  this  time, 
the  amount  of  study  which  I  did,  under  these  circumstances,  con- 
trive to  get  through,  amazes  and  confounds  me,  notwithstanding 
that  my  habits  of  application  remain  to  this  day  strong  and 
vigorous. 

"In  the  state  to  which  I  have  thus  referred,  I  suffered  much  wrong; 
and  the  fact  that,  young  as  I  then  was,  my  pen  became  the  instru- 
ment of  redressing  that  wrong,  and  of  ameliorating  the  more  afflict- 
ive part  of  my  condition  was  among  the  first  circumstances  which 
revealed  to  me  the  secret  of  the  strength  which  I  had,  unknown  to 
myself,  acquired.  The  flood  of  light  which  then  broke  in  upon  me 
not  only  gave  distinctness  of  purpose  to  what  had  before  been  little 


156  BRIEF  BIOGBAPHIES. 

more  than  dark  and  uncertain  gropings ;  but  also,  from  that  time, 
the  motive  to  my  exertions  became  more  mixed  than  it  had  been. 
My  ardor  and  perseverance  were  not  lessened  ;  and  the  pure  love  of 
knowledge,  for  its  own  sake,  would  still  have  carried  mo  on  ;  but 
other  inliuences,  the  influences  which  supply  the  impulse  to  most 
human  pursuits,  did  supervene,  and  gave  the  sanction  of  the  judg- 
ment to  the  course  which  the  instincts  of  mental  necessity  had  pre- 
viously dictated.  I  had,  in  fact,  learned  the  secret, 'that  knowledge 
is  power ;  and  if,  as  is  said  all  power  is  sweet,  then,  surely,  that> 
power  which  knowledge  gives  is,  of  all  others,  the  sweetest." 

In  conclusion,  we  may  add,  that  Dr.  Kitto  continued  to  lead  a 
happy  anda  useful  life,  cheered  by  the  faces  of  children  around  his 
table, — though  alas  !  he  could  not  hear  their  voices.  He  resided 
until  his  death,  in  1854,  in  the  beautiful  environs  of  London,  that 
he  might  he  within  sight  of  old  trees,  "withont 'which  his  heart  could 
scarcely  be  satisfied.  Indeed,  with  such  love  and  veneration  did  he 
regard  them,  that  the  felling  of  a  noble  tree  caused  him  the  deepest 
emotion.  But  he  delighted  in  the  faces  of  men,  too,  and  nothing 
gave  him  greater  delight  than  to  walk  or  drive  through  the  crowded 
thoroughfares  of  the  metropolis.  In  this  respect  he  resembled  the 
amiable  Charles  Lamb,  to  whom  the  crowd  of  Fleet  Street  was  more 
delightful  than  all  the  hills  and  lakes  of  Westmoreland.  "How 
often,''  said  Dr.  Kitto,  "at  the  end  of  a  day's  hard  toil,  have  I  thrown 
myself  into  an  omnibus,  and  gone  into  town,  for  no  other  purpose 
in  the  world  than  to  have  a  walk  from  Charing  Cross  to  St.  Paul's  on 
the  one  hand,  or  to  the  top  of  Regent  Street  on  the  other ;  or  from 
the  top  of  Tottenham  Court  Road  to  the  Post-officcj.  I  know  not 
"whether  I  liked  this  best  in  summer  or  in  winter.  I  could  seldom 
afford  myself  this  indulgence  but  for  one  or  two  evenings  a  week, 
when  I  could  manage  to  bring  my  day's  studies  to  a  close  an  hour 
or  so  earlier  than  usual.  In  summer  there  is  daylight,  and  I  could 
better  enjoy  the  picture-shops  and  the  street  incidents,  and  might 
diverge  so  far  as  to  pass  through  Covent  Garden,  and  luxuriate  among 
the  finest  fruits  and  most  beautiful  flowers  in  the  world.  And  in 
winter  it  might  be  doubted  whether  the  glory  of  the  shops,  lighted 
up  with  gas,  was  not  a  sufficient  counterbalance  for  the  absence  of 
daylight.  Perhaps  *  both  are  best,'  as  the  children  say  ;  and  yield 
the  same  kind  of  grateful  change  as  the  alternation  of  the  seasons, 
ofters."  Thus,  what  we,  who  have  our  hearing  entire,  regard  as  a 
great  calamity,  in  Dr.  Kitto  ceased  to  be  regarded  as  such.  The 
condition  became  natural  to  him,  and  his  sweet  temper  and  steady 
habits  of  industry  enabled  him  to  pass  through  life  honorably 
and  usefully.  His  life  was  a  noble  and  valuable  lesson  to  all 
young  men. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


RICHTER,  writing  from  Weimar,  whither  he  had  gone  to  see, 
eye  to  eye,  the  great  men  with  whose  fame  all  Europe  was 
ringing,  said:  **  On  the  second  day  T  threw  away  my  foolish 
prejudices  about  great  authors;  they  are  like  other  people.  Here, 
every  one  knows  that  they  are  like  the  earth,  which  looks  from  a 
distance,  from  heaven,  like  a  shining  moon;  but  when  the  foot  is 
upon  it,  it  is  found  to  be  made  of  Paris  mud  (bouede  parish." 

Alas  !  it  is  so.  Those  lofty  gods  whom  we  have  worshiped  and 
bowed  down  before, — those  gilted' children  of  genius  whose  eyes 
gazed  eagerly  ipto  the  unseen,  and  penetrated  its  depth  far  beyond 
our  ken, — when  we  approach  them  closer,  and  know  them  more  in- 
timately, become  stripped  of  their  halo  glory.  We  find  that  they 
are  but  men, — fallible,  frail,  and  erring, — tempest-tosed  by  passion 
and  desire, — stumbling  and  halt,  and  often  blind  and  decrepit. 
We  worship  no  more.  Tlie  earth  which  seen  from  a  distance,  looks 
a  beautiful  moon,  when  the  foot  is  on  it,  is  but  rocks,  clods,  and 
•'Paris  mud  !'' 

Sad  is  the  impression  left  on  the  mind  by  reading  the  brief  records 
some  of  these -unhai^py  children  of  genius;"  gifted,  but  unfiappy; 
loftily  endowed,  but  fitful  and  capricious;  with  the  aspirations  of 
an  angel,  but  the  low  appetites  of  a  brute;  daringly  speculative, 
but  grovelingly  sensual  ;-such,  in  a  few  words,  was  the  life  of 
Elgar  Allan  Poc:  a  being  fall  of  misery,  but  all  beaten  out  upon 
his  own  anvil;  a  man  gifted  as  few  are,  but  without  faijh  or  devotion, 
and  without  any  earnest  purpose  in  life. 

You  have  read  his  "Raven."  You  see  the  gloom  and  (Jespair  of 
that  unhappy  vouth's  life  written  there.  What  a  dismal,  tragic, 
remorseful  transcript  it  is  ! — the  croaking  raven,  bird  of  ill  omen, 
perched  above  its  masters  chamber-door,  responding  with  his  dole- 
ful •*  Nevermore  "  to  all  his  deep  questions  and  impatient  feelings  : 

15T 


158  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

'•  Prophet,"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil  l  Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil  I 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted. 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted,— tell  me  truly,  I  Implore, 

Is  there— IS  there  balm  In  GUead  ?  Tell  me,  tell  me,  I  Implore  I'» 
Quoth  the  raven,—**  ^levermore  l" 

••  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !"  I  shrieked,  upstart- 
ing: 
"  Oet  thee  back  into  the  tempest,  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  I 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  or  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  I 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  quit  the  bust  above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 
door  r* 

Quoth  the  raven,— "Nevermore !" 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  !s  sitting, 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  Just  above  my  chamber-door : 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demoQS  that  Is  dreaming. 
And  the  lampligtit  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 
lloor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  the  shadow  that  lies  lloatlnGr  on  the  floor, 
Shall  be  lifted— nevermore  I 

By  this  light,  read  the  following  brief  record  of  the  poet's  blurred 
and  blotted  life. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  born  at  Baltimore,  in  1811,  of  an  old  and  re- 
spectablo  family.  His  father  was  a  lawyer,  but  having  become  en- 
amored of  an  English  actress,  he  married  her,  and  followed  her 
profession  for  some  years,  until  his  death,  which  shortly  followed. 
Poe's  mother  died  about  the  same  time,  and  three  children  were  left 
destitute.  But  a  wealthy  gentleman,  named  Allan,  who  had  no 
children  of  his  own,  adopted  Edgar,  it  was  understood  with  the  in- 
tention of  leaving  him  his  heir.  In  1816  Mr.  Allan  took  the  boy  to 
England  with  him,  and  placed  him  in  a  boarding-school  at  Stoko 
Newington,  near  London,  where  he  remained  some  four  or  five 
years,  under  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bransby,  returning  to  America  in  1822. 

It  will  be  obvious  that  the  circumstances  of  Poe's  early  life  were 
very  unfavorable  to  his  healthy  moral  devcloprapnt.  Deprived  of 
the  blessings  of  maternal  nurture,  without  a  home,  brought  up 
among«6trangers,  there  is  little  cause  ta  wonder  at  the  subsequent 
heartlessness  towards  others  which  he  displayed,  and  the  excesses 
in  which  lie  indulged.  Returned  to  America,  he  entered  the  Uni- 
versity of  Charlottesville,  in  Virginia,  in  1825.  Unfortunately,  the 
Btudents  of  that  University  were  then  distinguished  for  their  disso- 
luteness and  their  excesses  in  many  ways;  and  Edgar  Poe  was  cno 
of  the  most  reckless  of  his  class.  Although  his  talents  were  such  as 
to  enable  him  to  master  with  ease  the  most  difficult  studies,  and  to 
take  the  highest  honors  of  his  year,  his  habits  of  gambling,  int'^m- 
perance,  and  general  dissii)atiou  v»'ere  such  as  to  cause  his  expul- 
sion from  the  University. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  159 

Mr.  AUao,  his  benefactor,  had  made  him  a  liberal  allowance;  but 
Poe  neverthcleRS  ran  deeply  into  debt,  chiefly  to  his  gambling 
friends;  and  when  his  drafts  were  presented  to  Mr.  Allan  for  pay- 
ment, he  declined  to  honor  them;  on  which  Poe  wrote  him  an  abu- 
sive letter,  left  his  house,  abandoned  his  half-formed  plans  of  life, 
and  suddenly  left  the  country  to  take  part  as  a  volunteer,  like  Byron, 
in  the  Greek  Revolution.  But  he  never  reached  Greece.  Whither  he 
wandered,  Heaven  knows.  Nothing  was  heard  of  him  until,  after 
the  lapse  of  a  year,  the  American  Minister  at  St.  Peterburgh  was  one 
morning  summoned  to  save  him  from  the  penalties  incurred  in  a 
drunken  debauch  over  night.  Through  the  Minister's  intercession, 
he  was  set  at  liberty  and  enabled  to  return  to  the  United  States. 

His  friend,  Mr.  Allan,  was  still  willing  to  assist  him,  and,  at  his 
request,  Poe  was  entered  as  scholar  in  the  Military  Academy  at 
West  Point;  but  again  his  dissipated  habits  displayed  themselves. 
He  neglected  his  duties  and  disobeyed  orders,  on  which  he  was 
cashiered,  and  once  more  returned  to  Mr.  Allan's  house,  who  was 
etill  ready  to  receive  him  and  treat  him  as  a  son.  But  a  circumstance 
shortly  occurred  which  finally  broke  the  connection  between  the  two. 
Mr.  Allan  married  a  second  time,  and  the  lady  was  considerably 
his  junior.  Poe  quarreled  with  her,  and,  it  is  said,  ridiculed 
Allan.  The  lady's  friends  have  averred  that  the  real  cause  of  the 
rupture  was,  that  Poe  made  disgraceful  overtures  to  the  young  wife, 
which  throws  another  dark  stain  upon  his  character.  Whatever  the 
real  cause  ma^f  have  been,  certain  it  is,  that  he  was  now  expelled 
from  his  patron's  house  in  anger,  and  when  Mr.  Allan  died,  some 
years  after,  he  left  nothing  to  Poe. 

The  young  man  had  in  the  meanwhile  published  a  small  volume 
of  poetry,  when  he  was  not  more  than  eighteen  years  of  age.  This 
was  very  favorably  received,  and  a  little  perseverance  might  have 
enabled*^  him  to  maintain  himself  creditably  as  a  literary  man.  But 
in  one  of  his  hasty  andreckless  fits,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  soldier. 
He  was  recognized  by  some  of  his  old  fellow-students  at  West  Point, 
and  they  made  efforts  to  obtain  him  a  commission,  which  promised 
to  be  successful;  but,  fitful  in  everything,  before  the  result  of  their 
kind  application  could  be  known,  he  deserted  ! 

We  next  find  Poo  a  successful  competitor  for  certain  prizes  offered 
by  the  proprietor  of  the  Baltimore  Visitor  for  the  best  story  and 
the  best  poem.  Poe  competed  for  both,  and  gained  both.  The 
author  was  sent  for,  and  made  his  appearance  in  due  time.  He  was 
in  a  state  of  the  utmost  destitution,  pnle,  ghastly,  and  filthy.  His 
seedy  frock-coat,  buttoned  up  to  his  throat,  concealed  the  absence 
of  a  shirt,  and  his  dilapidated  boots  disclosed  his  want  of  stockings^ 
Mr.  Kennedy,  the  author  of  "Horseshoe  Kobinson,"  who  was  the 
adjudicator  of  the  prize,  took  an  immediate  interest  in  the  young 
man,  then  only  twenty-two  years  old  ;  and  accompanied  him  to  a 
clothing-store,  where  he  provided  him  with  a  respectable  suit,  v/ith 


160  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

changes  of  linen,  and,  after  taking  a  bath,  Poo  once  more  appeared 
in  the  restored  guirje  of  a  gentleman. 

Mr.  Kennedy  further  used  his  influence  in  obtaining  for  Poe 
some  literary  employment,  and  he  was  shortly  engaged  as  joint  edi- 
tor of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  published  at  Richmond. 
He  was  now  a  literary  man,  living  by  his  pen.  The  literary  pro- 
fession i:!  an  honorable  one,  even  noble,  inasmuch  as  it  is  identified 
with  intellectual  culture  and  high  manly  gifts.  The  literary  man 
exercises  much  power  in  the  world.  He  lielps  to  form  the  opinions 
of  other  men;  indeed,  he  makes  public  opinion.  All  other  powers 
have  in  modern  times  become  weaker,  while  this  has  been  wnxing 
stronger  from  day  to  day.  Kings  are  being  superseded  by  books, 
priests  by  magazines,  and  diplomatists  by  newspapers.  Perhaps 
bookmen  and  editors  now  wield  more  intellectual  power  than  all  the 
other  crafts  combined.  Literary  men  have  taken  the  place  of  iho 
feudal  barons,  and  the  pen  has  become  the  ruling  instrument  in- 
stead of  the  sword.  The  man  of  letters  is  nn  altogther  modern 
product,  the  like  of  whom  was  unknown  to  former  ages.  Never, 
before  the  last  century,  was  there  any  cla.ss  of  men  in  society  who 
made  a  profession  of  thinking  for  others,  or  wlio  earned  a  subsis- 
tence by  writing  and  publishing  their  thoughts  in  books  and 
journals.  Soldiers,  law-givers,  and  priests  may  have  taken  up 
the  j)en  to  write  and  give  an  account  of  their  lives  and  times,  or 
have  written  books  of  philosophy  or  meditation,  but  never  before 
has  there  been  a  special  class  of  men  who  made  it  their  sole  business 
and  profession  to  write  for  the  general  public. 

The  question  has  been  discussed  whether  this  purely  professional 
literary  life  is  compatible  with  the  simple  and  straightforward 
duties  of  a  man.  His  position  is  certainly  very  different  from 
that  of  the  great  non-professional  writers  of  former  times,  — the 
Homers,  Shakcspearos,  Miltons,  J^ossuets,  Pascals,  Bacons,  Fene- 
lons;  these  wrote  to  satisfy  an  earnest  desire,  in  answer  to  some 
strong  inward  call, —to  do  a  certain  work,  though  not  for  money, — 
that  was  not  their  main  work,  — but  to  fulfill  a  dutj', — it  might  lie, 
to  fill  up  a  vacant  hour.  Modern  literary  men  may,  however,  have 
no  s!  ecial,  distinct,  or  well-defined  call  to  write;  with  them  it  is  a 
business,  a  calling,  a  cr.ift,  self-chosen.  They  write  that  they  maj^ 
live.  There  may  be  no  sense  of  responsibility  as  to  what  they  write; 
and  the  gift  may  thus  be  abused  as  well  as  used.  To  enter  upon 
what  is  called  a  "literary  career,"  may  even  be  a  merely  instinc- 
tive and  irrational  act,  performed  without  deliberation,  the  choice 
being  determined  by  tr.ste  rather  than  by  reliection.  In  other  pro- 
fessions experience  and  character  are  required;  but  in  this  profes- 
sion they  are  not  regarded  as  at  all  requisite.  The  literary  man 
may  be  dissolute,  spendthrift,  without  any  business  habits  or  any 
moral  stamina;  and  yet  he  may  succeed  as  a  public  writer.  This 
must  be  regarded  as  a  curious  f^^aturo  of  the  literary  character. 


EDGAll  ALLAN  PCS,  161 

.  Here  we  have  Edgar  Poe  installed  at  twenty-two  avS  a  public 
teacher  through  the  medium  of  the  press;  a  young  man  incompe- 
tent lo  manage  a  small  store,  unable  to  manage  himself,  and  yet  a 
jjubiio  writer.  Not  many  months  pass  before  he  lapses  into  his  old 
habits  of  drunkenness.  Fatal  bottle  !  What  manifold  curses  have 
been  poured  from  that  narrow  neck  of  thine  !  Poe  fell  a  victim 
like  thousands  more.  For  a- whole  week  he  was  drunk  and  unable 
to  write;  then  he  was  dismissed.  Next  followed  entreaties,  interces- 
sions, pleadings,  j^rofessions  of  abstinence  for  the  future  from  the 
fatal  bottle.  He  was  taken  back  for  a  time;  but  the  habit  had  be- 
come rooted;  the  character  was  formed,  and,  the  demon  had  wound 
his  fetters  about  the  doomed  man.  Finally  dismissed  from  his  sit- 
uation, he  went  from  Richmond  to  Baltimore,  and  thence  to  Phil?.- 
delphia,  w^here  he  proceeded  to  lead  the  life  of  a  literary  **  man 
about  town." 

It  was  while  he  resided  at  Philadelphia,  in  1839,  that  Poe  pub- 
lished his  two  volumes  of  **  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  the  Arabes- 
que." These  tales  exhibit  extraordinary  metaphysical  acuteness, 
and  an  imagination  which  delights  to  dwell  in  the  shadowy  con- 
fines of  human  experience,  among  the  abodes  of  crime,  gloom,  and 
horror.  They  exhibit  a  subtle  power  of  analysis,  land  a  minuteness 
of  detail  and  refinement  of  reasoning  remarkable  in  so  young  a 
writer.  He  anatomizea  mystery,  and  gives  to  the  most  incredible 
inventions  a  wonderful  air  of  reality.  ' 

While  Poe  was  engaged  in  writing  these  striking  tales,  he  was 
pursuing  his  old  round  of  dissipation.  To  his  other  imprudences 
he  had  added  that  of  marrying, — the  most  imprudent  thing  a  de- 
termined drunkard  can  do.  For,  instead  of  one  miserable  person, 
there  are  two,  following  in  whose  wake  are  usually  a  train  of  little 
miseries,  at  length  becoming  agonies,  eating  into  a  man's  flesh  as  it 
were  fire, — that  is,  if  he  have  any  sense  of  responsibility  still  surviv- 
ing within  him.  The  woman  Poe  married  was  his  cousin,  Virginia 
Clemm,  amiable  and  loveh%  but  poor  and  gentle,  quite  unfitted  to 
master  the  now  headstrong  passion  of  her  husband  for  drink. 

Poe  managed  to  eke  out  a  slender  living  for  himself  and  wife  by 
writing  for  the  magazines  and  the  newspapers.  For  a  time  it  seemed 
that  h©  would  reform;  he  wrote  to  one  friend  that  he  had  quite 
•'overcome  the  seduction  and  dangerous  besetment'*  of  drink,  and 
to  another,  that  he  had  become  a  *' model  of  temperance."  But 
shortly  after,  he  agavi  fell  off  as  before  into  his  old  habits,  and  for 
weeks  was  regardless  of  everything  but  the  ways  and  means  of  sat- 
isfying his  morbid  and  insatiable  appetite  for  drink.  All  this 
shows  how  little  intellectual  power  avails  without  moral  goodness, 
and  of  how  small  worth  is  genius  without  the  common  work-a-day 
elements  of  sober,  manly  character.  For  it  is  life,  not  scripture, 
that  avails, — character,  not  literary  talents,  that  brings  a  man  hap- 
piness, and  tells  on  the  betterment  of  the  world  at  large. 

BlOGIiAPUIRS    6 


162  BEIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Poe  conld  appreciate  the  glorious  thoughts  contained  in  books, 
yet  he  failed  to  apply  their  precepts  of  wisdom.  He  could  rejoice 
in  hia  own  thoughts,  but  had  not  learned  to  respect  his  own  life. 
His  mind  was  full  of  riches,  yet,  wanting  in  moral  good,  he  remain- 
ed poor  and  without  resources.  His  life  did  not  embrace  duty,  but 
pleasure.  Intoxicated  with  essences  and  perfumes,  he  neglected 
wisdom,  which  is  the  true  balm  of  life.  Poor  unfortunate,  thus 
worthlessly  eating  and  drinking  out  of  the  sacred  vessels  of  know- 
ledge !  Many  and  poignant  must  have  been  the  distresses  suffered 
by  pool?  Poe  in  the  dreary  and  miserable  state  in  which  he  lived, — 
distress  not  only  about  money  and  worldly  well-being,  but  about 
God  and  duty.  Then  followed  new  catastrophes,  family  disasters, 
domestic  misery, — teaching  him,  if  he  would  but  learn,  the  same 
lessons  of  duty,  but  of  which,  through  life,  he  seemed  to  be  alto- 
gether ignorant.  Man  cannot  lead  an  egotistic  and  selfish  life  with- 
out buffering.  For  life,  from  time  to  time,  tells  him  that  he  is  not 
alone,  and  that  he  owes  much  to  those  of  his  own  blood  and  house- 
hold. Love  itself,  smiling  and  celestial  love,  in  such  a  case,  be- 
comes a  source  of  torments  and  calamities  to  him.  The  brave  only, 
live  through  this  state;  the  heartless  despair,  utter  loud  cries  of  re- 
volt, blaspheme,  and  precipitate  themselves  into  extreme  courses. 
Their  originality  and  genius  may  astonish  the  world,  but  originali- 
ty is  nothing  unless  it  includes  the  realities  of  life;  they  are  but 
dreamers,  unless  poets,  they  also  do  the  daily  living  of  true  men.  But 
you  are  a  poet !  Well,  show  me  the  practical  issue  of  knowledge  and 
beauty  in  your  life  and  character.  Unless  you  do,  I  say  you  have 
adopted  the  profession  merely  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  and  fascin- 
ation of  thinking, — not  so  much  to  discover  and  propagate  truth  as 
to  gratify  your  own  selfish  tastes. 

We  wish  there  had  been  no  more  thsui  this  in  Poe*s  case;  but 
there  was  positive  dishonor  in  the  course  of  life  he  pursued.  While 
admitted  into  the  confidence  of  Mr.  Burton,  proprietor  of  the  Gen- 
tleman^s  Magazine,  at  Philadelphia,  at  the  very  time  that  he  was 
neglecting  his  own  proper  work  of  writing  for  the  Magazine,  he  was 
nevertheless  engaged  in  preparing  the  prospectus  of  a  new  rival 
monthly,  and  obtaining  transcripts  of  his  employer's  subscription 
and  account  books,  to  be  used  in  a  scheme  for  supplanting  his  per- 
iodical. Of  course,  on  this  scurvy  trick  being  discovered,  Poe  was 
at  once  dismissed;  but  only  to  start  a  rival  Graham's  Magazine,  with 
which  he  was  connected  for  a  year  and  half,  leavinof  it,  as  usual,  be- 
cause of  his  drunken  habits.  Wiiile  writing  in  Graham's  Magazine, 
Poe  published  several  of  his  finest  tales,  and  some  of  his  most  tren- 
chant criticisms.  These  last  ware  disfigured,  however,  by  a  tone  of 
morbid  bitterness,  such  as  a  man  who  misconducts  himself  towards 
the  world  so  often  affects.  In  his  capacity  of  critic,  Poe  not  nnfre- 
■quently  assumed  an  air  of  bitter  sarcasm,  and  made  the  air  blatant 
vith  his  cries  of  rage  and  his  implacable  anathemas.     Burton,   hia 


EI>GAK  ALLAK  PCE.  165 

former  employer,  often  expostulated  with  bim  because  of  the  havoc 
which  he  did  upon  the  books  of  rival  authors,  and  tried  to  tame 
down  hie  severity  to  a  moderate  tone,  but  without  avail. 

In  184-1  Poe  removed  to  New  York,  where  he  published  his  won- 
derful poem,  "The  L'aven," — perhaps  the  Very  finest  and  most 
oripinal  single  poem  of  its  kind  that  America  has  yet  produced.  It 
indicates  a  most  wayward  and  subtle  genius.  It  takes  you  captive 
by  its  gloom}%  weird  power.  Of  his  other  poems,  "Annabel  Lee" 
and  "The  Haunted  Palace"  are  especially  beautiful.  But  the  radi- 
ance which  they  give  forth  is  lurid;  and  the  fire  which  they  contain 
scorches,  but  does  not  warm.    As  in  his  "Haunted  Palace,"  we 

Through  the  red-lltten  windows  s?e8 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically, 

To  a  discordant  melody , 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river. 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh— hut  smile  no  more. 

At  New  York,  Poe  was  admitted  into  the  best  literary  circles,  and 
might  have  made  for  himself  a  position  of  influence,  had  he  pos- 
sessed ordinary  good  conduct.  But  his  usual  failing  again  betrayed 
him.  What  was  worse,  he  was  poisoned  in  his  principles  :  indeed, 
he  had  no  principles.  He  was  false,  and  a  coward.  Take  this  in- 
stance :  he  had  borrowed  fifty  dollars  from  a  lady,  on  a  promise  given 
by  him  that  he  would  return  the  money  in  a»few  days.  He  did  not 
return  it;  and  was  then  asked  for  a  written  acknowledgment  of  the 
debt;  his  answer  was  a  denial  that  he  had  ever  borrowed  the  money, 
accompanied  with  a  threat,  that,  if  the  lady  said  anything  more 
about  the  subject,  he  would  publish  a  correspondence  of  hers,  of  an 
infamous  character,  which  would  blast  her  forever.  Of  course,  there 
was  no  such  correspondence  in  existence;  but  when  Poe  heard  that 
the  lady's  brother  wa.s  in  search  of  him  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
the  satisfaction  considered  necessary  in  such  cases,  he  sent  a  friend 
to  him  with  a  humble  apology  and  retraction,  and  an  excuse  tiiathe 
had  been  "out  of  his  mind  at  the  time." 

His  habits  of  intoxication  increased,  and  his  pecuniary  difficulties, 
as  might  Jiave  been  expected,  became  more  urgent.  Often,  after  a 
long-continued  debauch,  he  was  without  the  ordinary  necessaries  of 
life.  His  wife,  and  mother-in-law,  who  were  dependent  upon  his 
exertions  for  their  means  of  living,  went  a-begging  for  help.  Not 
improbably,  the  distress  which  his  wife  suffered  from  the  irregular- 
ity of  her  husband's  career,  and  the  frequent  privations  which  she 
endured,  had  something  to  do  with  causing  the  illness  from  which 
she  eventually  died.  A  number  of  friends  voluntarily  contributed 
towards  the  support  of  the  distressed  family  when  their  case  became 
known  through  the  newspapers,  but  the  help  came  too  late  to  be  of 
any  service  to  Mrs.  Poe. 


164  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

In  1848  Poe  delivered  a  public  lecture  on  the  Cosmogony  of  the 
Universe, — an  extraordinary  rhapsody,  very  imaginative,  but  quiio 
unscientiiic.  His  object  v^^as  to  raise  money  for  the  purpose  of 
establishing  a  monthly  magazine,  and  we  believe  several  numbers 
were  published;  but  his  unsteady  habits  soon  proved  its  ruin.  Ka 
also  quarreled  with  the  editors  of  the  principal  magazines  lor  which 
he  had  formerly  written,  and  made  enemies  all  round.  About  the 
Bame  time,  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
w:omen  of  New  England,  sought  her  hand,  arid  the  day  of  marriage 
was  fixed.  They  were  not  married,  and  the  breaking  of  the  engai^e- 
ment  affords  ai  striking  illustration  of  his  character.  His  biographer 
thus  relates  the  circumstances  connected  with  it: 

*'Poe  said  to  a  female  acquaintance  in  New  York,  who  congratu- 
lated him  upon  the  prospect  of  his  union  with  a  person  of  so  much 
genius  and  so  many  virtues,  *  It  is  a  mistake;  I  am  not  going  to  be 
married.'  *  Why,  Mr.  Poe,  I  understand  that  the  banns  have  been 
published  !  *  'I  cannot  help  what  you  have  heard,  my  dear  madam, 
but,  mark  me,  I  shall  not  marry  her  !  *  He  left  town  the  same  even- 
ing, and  the  next  day  was  reeling  through  the  streets  of  the  city 
which  was  the  lady's  home  ;  and  in  the  evening  that  should  have 
been  the  evening  before  the  bridal,  in  his  drunkenness  he  committed 
at  her  house  such  outrages  as  made  necessary  a  summons  of  the 
police." 

He  pursued  a  course  of  reckless  dissipation  for  some  time,  after 
which  he  went  to  Virginia,  on  means  raised  from  the  charity  of  his 
few  remaining  friends.  *He  delivered  some  lectures  there;  then  he 
joined  a  temperance  society,  and  professed  a  determination  to  re- 
form his  evil  habits.  But  it  was  too  late;  his  bad  genius  prevailed 
over  all  his  better  resolutions.  Again  he  contracted  an  engagement 
to  marry  a  lady  whom  he  had  known  in  his  youth,  and  returned  to 
New  York  to  fulfill  a  literary  engagement,  and  prepare  for  his  mar- 
riage. In  a  tavern  he  casually  met  some  of  his  old  acquaintances, 
who  invitod  him  to  drink.  He  drank  until  he  was  deplorably 
drunk.  He  was  afterwards  found  in  the  streets,  insane  and  dying, 
and  was  carried  to  the  public  hospital,  in  which  he  expired  on  the 
7th  of  October,  1849,  in  his  thirty-eighth  year. 

Thus  miserably  perished  another  of  the  most  gifted  of  earth's  sons. 
"What  a  torn  record  of  a  life  it  is  !  more  sorrowful  by  far  than  that  of 
our  own  Otway  or  Chatterton.  Alternately  a  seraph  and  a  brute, — 
an  inspired  poet  and  a  groveling  sensualist, — a  prophet  and  a  drunk- 
ard,—his  biography  unfolds  a  tale  of  mingled  admiration  and  hor- 
ror, such  as  has  been  told  of  very  few  literary  men.  It  is  painful  to 
think  of  it :  but  it  is  right  that  such  a  history  should  be  known, 
were  it  only  as  a  beacon  to  warn  susceptible  youth  from  the  horrible 
fescination  of  drink,  which  lures  so  many  to  their  destruction. 


THEODORE    HOOK. 


THE  unhappy  career  of  Edgar  A.  Poe  is  not  without  its  counter- 
part in  English  literary  biography.  Johnson,  in  his  painful 
memoir  of  Savage,  has  told  a  similar  story  of  genius  and  mis- 
fortune, or  rather  genius  and  misconduct ;  for  it  is  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  the  possession  of  genius  in  any  -w&y  conduces  to  mis- 
fortune, except  through  the  misconduct  of  its  possessor.  Poetry  and- 
a  garret  used  at  one  time  to  be  identified;  but  life  in  a  garret  may  be 
as  noble  as  life  in  a  palace,  and  a  great  deal  purer.  As  Sir  Walter 
Kaleigh  once  wrote  in  the  little  dungeon  in  the  Tower,  still  pointed 
out  as  the  place  of  his  confinement, 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  I 

It  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  man,  and  not  the  place, — call  it  a  hovel, 
a  garret,  or  a  palace,— in  which  the  body  lives.  Even  Johnson  has 
summed  up  the  ills  of  the  scholar's  life  in  these  words:  **  Toil,  envj^ 
want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail."  But  Johnson,  doubtless,  bitterly 
remembered  the  day  v/hen  he  signed  himself  Impraiisus,  or  Dinner- 
less,  and  received  the  anonymous  alms  of  a  pair  of  shoes.  Johnson 
must  have  been  in  one  of  his  ungenial  moods  when  he  penned 
those  bitter  words. 

The  fate  of  Chatterton,  also,  was  a  hapless  one.  Proud,  impulsive, 
ardent,  and  full  of  genius,  like  Poe,  his  career  was  short,  unhappy, 
and  mournfully  concluded.  Tliat  of  Otway,  the  author  of  '*  Venice 
Preserved,"  who  perished  for  want  of  bread,  also  springs  to  mind, 
Kor  are  other  equally  mournful  examples  a-wanting,  which  it  would 
be  painful  to  relate.  These  instances  are  apt  to  be  dwelt  upon  too 
much,  and  cited  from  time  to  time  as  illustrations  of  the  unhappy  lot 
of  genius;  whereas  they  are  merely  exceptional  cases,  not  at  all 
characteristic  of  literary  men  in  general. 

166 


166  BEIEF  BIOGBAPHIES. 

Poets  and  authors  are  often  charged  with  being  improTident,  fts 
a  rule.  But  are  there  no  improvident  lawyers,  divines,  merchants, 
and  shopkeepers?  The  case  of  Theophilus  Gibber  is  sometimes 
cited,  who  begged  a  guinea  and  spent  it  on  a  dish  of  ortolans;  and 
perhaps  of  poor  Goldsmith,  who,  when  preserved  from  a  jail  by 
the  money  received  for  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  forthwith  cele- 
brated the  circumstance  by  a  jollification  with  his  landlady.  But 
authors  have  their  weaknesses  and  their  frailties,  like  other  men ; 
and  some  of  them  are  drunken,  and  some  improvident,  as  other 
men  are.  As  a  class,  however,  they  are  neither  generally  improv- 
ident nor  out  at  elbows.  But  we  are  usually  disposed  to  think 
much  more  of  the  "calamities  of  authors"  than  we  do  of  the  calam- 
ities of  other  men.  A  hundred  bankers  might  break,  and  ten 
thousand  merchants  ruin  themselves  by  tKeir  improvidence,  but 
none  would  think  it  worth  their  while  to  record  such  events  in 
books;  nor,  except  as  a  mere  matter  of  news  for  living  men,  would 
any  one  care  to  read  of  such  occurrences.  But  how  different  in 
the  case  of  a  poet?  Biographers  eagerly  seize  the  minutest  matter 
of  detail  in  the  history  of  a  man  of  genius.  Johnson  tells  us  the 
story  of  Savage,  Southey  rel'ites  the  career  of  Chatterton,  Cun- 
ningham recounts  the  life  of  Burns,  and  every  tittle  of  their  history 
is  carefully  gathered  up  and  published  for  the  information  of  con- 
temporary and  future  readers. 

The  late  Thomas  Hood,  in  one  of  his  prose  works,  little  known, 
well  observed  that: 

**  Literary  men,  as  a  body,  will  bear  comparison  in  point  of  con- 
duct with  any  other  class.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  they  are 
subjected  to  an  ordeal  quite  peculiar,  and  scarcely  milder  than  the 
Inquisition.  The  lives  of  literary  men  are  proverbially  barren  of 
incident,  and  consequently  the  most  trivial  particulars,  the  most 
private  affairs,  are  unceremoniously  worked  up,  to  furnish  matter 
for  their  bald  biographies.  Accordingly,  as  soon  as  an  author  is 
defunct,  his  character  is  submitted  to  a  sort  of  Egyptian  prst  moi-tem 
trial;  or  rather,  a  moral  inquest  with  Paul  Pry  for  the  coroner,  and 
a  judge  of  assize,  a  commissioner  of  bankrupts,  a  Jew  broker,  a 
Methodist  parson,  a  dramatic  licenser,  a  dancing-mascer,  a  master 
of  the  ceremonies,  a  rat-catcher,  a  bone-collector,  a  parish  clerk, 
a  schoolmaster,  and  a  reviewer  for  a  jury.  It  is  the  province  of 
these  personages  to  rummage,  ransack,  scrape  together,  rake  up, 
ferret  out,  sniff,  detect,  analyze,  and  appraise,  all  particulars  of  the 
birth,  parentage,  and  education,  life,  character,  and  behavior,  breed- 
ing, accomplishments,  opinions,  and  literary  performances  of  the 
departed.  Secret  drawers  are  searched,  private  and  confidential 
letters  published,  manuscripts  intended  for  the  fire  are  set  up  in 
type,  tavern-bills  and  washing-bills  are  compared  with  their  receipts, 
copies  of  writs  re-copied,  inventories  taken  of  effects,  wardrobe 
ticked  off  by  the  tailor's  accounts,  bygone  toys  of  youth—billets-doux, 


THEODOBE  HOOK.  167 

snnff-boxes,  canes— exhibited,— discarded  hobby-horses  are  trotted 
out, — perhaps  even  a  dissecting  surgeon  is  called  in  to  draw  up  a 
minute  report  of  the  state  of  the  corpse  and  its  viscera;  in  short, 
nothing  is  spared  that  can  make  an  item  for  the  clerk  to  insert  in  his 
memoir.  Outrageous  as  it  may  seem,  this  is  scarcely  an  exaggera- 
tion. For  example,  who  will  dare  to  say  that  we  do  not  know  at 
this  very  hour  more  of  Goldsmith's  affairs  than  he  ever  did  him- 
self? It  is  rather  wonderful  than  otherwise,  that  the  literary  char- 
acter should  shine  out  as  it  does  after  such  a  severe  scrutiny."  ^ 

It  is  not  enough,  however,  that  literary  men  will  bear  comparison 
in  point  of  conduct  with  any  other  class.  We  think  the  public  are 
entitled  to  expect  more  than  this;  and  to  apply  to  them  the  words, 
*'  Of  those  to  whom  much  is  given,  much  shall  be  required."  They  are 
men  of  the  highest  culture,  and  ought  to  be  men  of  the  highest  char- 
acter. As  influencing  the  minds  and  morals  of  our  readers,  -  and 
the  world  is  daily  looldng  more  and  more  to  the  books  which  men 
of  genius  write,  for  instruction, — they  ought  to  cultivate  in  them- 
selves a  high  standard  of  character, — the  very  highest  standard  of 
character,— in  order  that  those  who  study  and  contemplate  them  in 
their  books  may  be  lifted  and  lighted  up  by  their  example.  At  all 
events  we  think  the  public  are  not  over-exacting  when  they  require 
that  the  great  gifts  with  which  the  leading  minds  among  men  have 
been  endowed  shall  not  be  prostituted  for  unworthy  purposes,  nor 
employed  for  merely  selfish  and  venial  ends.  Genius  is  a  great  gift, 
and  ought  to  be  used  wisely  and  uprightly  for  the  elevation  of  the 
moral  character  and  the  advancement  of  the  intelligence  of  the  world 
at  large.  If  not  so  employed,  genius  and  talent  may  be  a  curse  to 
their  possessor,  and  not  a  blessing  to  others, — they  may  even  be  a 
fountain  of  bitterness  and  woe,  spreading  moral  poison  throughout 
society. 

We  do  not  say  that  Theodore  Hook  was  an  author  of  this  latter 
class;  but  we  do  think  that  a  perusal  of  his  life,  as  written  by  one 
of  his  own  friendi  and  admirers,*  cannot  fail  to  leave  on  the  reader's 
mind  the  impression,  that  here  was  a  man  gifted  with  the  finest 
powers,  in  whom  genius  proved  a  traitor  to  itself,  and  false  to  its 
high  mission.  With  shining  abilities,  a  line  intellect,  sparkling  wit, 
and  great  capacity  for  work.  Hook  seemed  to  have  no  higher  ambi- 
tion in  life  than  to  sit  as  an  ornament  at  the  tables  of  the  great, — to 
buzz  about  their  candles,  and  cousume  himself  for  their  merriment 
and  diversion.  In  the  houses  cff  titled  men,  who  kept  fine  company 
and  gave  great  dinners,  he  did  but  play  the  part  of  the  licensed  wit 
and  jester, — wearing  the  livery  of  his  entertainers,  not  on  his  per- 
son, indeed,  but  in  his  soul;  bartering  the  birthright  of  his  superior 
intellect  for  a  mess  of  pottage, — as  Douglas  Jerrold  has  said,  "  a 
mess  of  pottage  served  up  at  a  lord's  table  in  a  lord's  platter." 

♦  Theodore  Hook :  a  SketclL    Murray. 


168  BKIEF  biographies; 

Theodore  Hook  was  the  son  of  a  musical  composer  of  some  note  in 
his  day,  and  born  in  Bedford  Square,  London,  in  1788.  He  had  an 
only  brother,  James,  who  afterwards  became  Dean  of  Worcester,  and 
whose  son,  Dr.  Hook,  Dean  of  Chichester,  survives  to  do  honor  to 
the  talents  and  reputation  of  the  family.  Theodore  was,  in  early 
life,  petted  by  his  father,  who  re^'arded  him  as  a  prodigy.  He  was 
sent  to  school  at  Harrow,  wiiere  he  was  the  school-fellow  of  Byron 
and  Peel,  though  not  in  the  same  form.  But  on  the  death  of  his 
mother,  Mr.  Hook  took  the  boy  from  school,  partly  because  he  found 
his  society  an  amusing  Rolaoe,  an  1  also  because  he  had  discovered 
that  h'e  could  turn  the  youth's  precocious  talents  to  profitable  ac- 
count. Already,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  Theodore  could  play 
expertly  on  the  pinno,  and  sing  pathetic  as  wcdl  as  comic  songs 
with  remarkable  expression.  One  evening  he  enchanted  the  father 
especially  by  singing,  to  his  own  accompaniment,  two  new  ballads, 
one  grave  and  one  gay.  Whence  the  airs, — whence  the  words?  It 
turned  out  that  the  verses  and  the  music  were  both  Theodore's  own! 
Here  was  a  mine  for  the  vet'^ran  artist  to  work !  Hitherto  he  had 
been  forced  to  borrow  his  words:  now  the  whole  manufacture  might 
be  done  at  home.  So  young  Hook  was  taken  into  partnership  with 
his  father,  at  the  age  of  sixteen;  and  straightway  became  a  preco- 
cious man,  admired  of  musicians  and  players,  the  friends  and  boon 
companions  of  his  father.  Several  of  his  songs  "took"  on  the 
stag?,  and  he  became  the  pet  of  the  green-room.  Night  after  night 
he  hung  about  the  theaters,  with  the  privilege  of  admission  before 
the  curtain  and  behind  it.  Popular  actors  laughed  at  his  jokes,  and 
pretty  actresses  would  have  their  bouquets  handed  to  them  by 
nobody  but  Theodore. 

An  effort  was  made  by  his  brother— then  advancing  in  the  Church 
— to  have  the  youth  r?niovc'd  from  this  atmosphere  of  dissipation 
and  frivolity;  and,  at  his  urgent  remonstrance,  Theodore  was  enter- 
ed a  student  at  Oxford.  But  he  carried  his  spirit  of  rebellious  frolic 
with  him.  When  the  Vice-Chancellor,  noticing  his  boyish  appear- 
ance, said,  "You  seem  very  young,  sir;  are  you  prepared  to  sign  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles  ?"  **0  yes,  sir,"  briskly  answered  Theodore, — 
**  quite  ready,— for^V,  if  you  please  !"  The  dignitary  shut  the  book; 
the  brother  apologized,  the  boy  looked  contrite,  the  articles  were 
duly  signed,  and  the  young  scape-grace  matriculated  at  Alma  Mtiter. 
He  was  not  yet  to  reside  at  Oxford,liowfiver,  but  returned  to  Lon- 
doa  to  go  through  a  }>rescribed  course  of  readitig.  Under  his  father's 
eye,  however,  no  serious  study  could  go  fonvard; besides, the  youth's 
head  was  full  of  farce.  At  sixteen,  he  began  to  write  vaudevilles 
for  the  stafT^  the  music  adapted  to  which  was  supplied  by  his 
father.  These  trifles  succeeded,  and  the  clever  boy  became  a  great- 
er green-room  pet  man  ever.  He  thus  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Mathews  an  I  Listen,  for  whom  he  wrote  farces.  Hook  was  not  over 
particular  about  the  sources  from  whence  he  cribbed  his   "])oints;" 


THEODOllE  HOOK.  1  G<) 

borrowing  unscrupulously  from  all  quarters.  In  the  course  of  four 
years,  he  wrote  more  than  ten  plays,  which  had  a  considerable  run 
at  the  time,  though  they  are  now  all  but  forgotten.  Two  of  them 
have,  nevertheless,  been  recently  revived,  namely,  "Exchange  no 
Robbery,"  and  "Killing  no  Murder."  Had  he  gone  on  writing 
plays,  he  would  certainly  have  established  a  reputation  as  a  first- 
rate  farce-writer.  But,  in  his  volatile  humor,  he  must  needs  try 
novels;  and  forthwith,  at  twenty  years  old,  he  wrote  * '  Musgrave," — 
a  novel  of  ridiculous  sentimentality,  but  sparkling  and  clever:  yet 
it  was  a  failure.  About  the  same  time,  his  life  was  a  succession 
of  boisterous  buffooneries,  of  which  his  *' Gilbert  Gurney"  may  be 
regarded  as  a  pretty  faithful  record.  Unquestionably,  Hook  wrote 
that  novel  chieily  from  personal  recollections  ;  it  is  virtually  his 
autobiography  ;  and  in  his  diary  when  speaking  of  its  progress,  he 
uses  the  words,  "working  at  my  life." 

Hook  often  used  to  tell  the  story — which  he  gives  in  detail  in 
"  Gilbert  Gurney  " — of  Mathews  and  himself,  when  one  day  rowing 
to  liichmond,  being  suddenly  smitten  by  the  sight  of  a  placard  at 
the  foot  of  a  Barnes  garden. — ''No  body  permitted  io  land  here — Offen- 
dei's  prosecuted  with  the  idnwst  rigor  of  the  Laic.'"  The  pair  instantly 
disembarked  on  the  forbidden  paradise;  the  fishing-line  was  conver- 
ted into  a  surveyor's  measuring-tape;  the  wags  paced  to  and  fro  on 
the  beautiful  lawn, — Hook,  the  surveyor,  with  his  book  and  pencil 
in  hand,— Mathews  the  clerk,  with  the  cord  and  walking-stick,  both 
soon  pinned  into  the  exquisite  turf.  Then  suddenly  opened  the 
parlor-window  of  the  mansion  above,  and  forth  stepped,  in  bluster- 
ing ire,  a  napkined  alderman,  who  advanced  with  what  haste  he 
could  against  the  intruders  on  his  paradise.  The  comedians  stood 
cool,  and  scarcely  condescended  to  reply  to  his  indignant  inquiries. 
At  length  oozed  out  the  gradual  announcement  of  their  being  the 
agents  of  a  New  Canal  Company,  settling  where  the  new  cut  was  to 
cross  the  old  gentleman's  pleasure-ground.  Their  regret  was  ex- 
treme at  having  **  to  perform  so  disagreeable  a  duty,"  but  public  in- 
terests must  be  regarded.  Then  came  the  alderman's  suggestion 
that  the  pair  had  better  "walk  in  and  talk  the  matter  over;"  their 
reluctant  acquiescence, — "had  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  spare, 
— feared  that  it  was  of  no  use"  their  endeavoring  to  avoid  the  beau- 
tiful spot, — the  new  cut  must  come  through  the  grounds.  However, 
in  they  went;  the  turkey  was  just  served,  an  excellent  dinner  fol- 
lowed, washed  down  with  madeira,  champagne,  claret,  and  so  on. 
At  length  the  good  fare  produced  its  effect,— the  projected  branch  of 
the  canal  was  reconsidered, — the  city  knight's  arguments  were  ac- 
knowledged to  be  more  and  more  weighty.  "  Really,"  says  the  alder- 
man, "this  cut  must  be  given  up; but  one  bottle  more,  dear  gentle- 
men." ^  At  last  when  it  was  getting  dark — they  were  eight  miles  from 
Westminster  Bridge— Hook  burst  out  into  song,  and  narrated  in  ex- 
tempore verse  th^  whole  transaction,  winding  up  with — 


170  BRIEF  BIOGBAPHIES, 

And  we  ^eatly  approve  of  your  fare. 
Your  cellar's  as  pilme  as  your  cook. 
And  tills  clerk  here  is  Mathews  the  player, 
And  my  name,  sir,  is— Theodore  Hook  1 " 

The  adventure  forms  the  subject  of  a  capital  chapter  in  "Gilbert 
Gurney,"  which  many  of  our  readers  may  have  read. 

But  the  maddest  of  Hook's  tricks  was  that  known  as  the  "Bemers 
Street  Hoax,"  which  happened  in  1809,  as  follows:  Walking  down 
Berners  Street,  one  day,  Hook's  companion  (probably  Mathews) 
called  his  attention  to*^  a  particularly  neat  and  modest  house,  the 
residence — as  was  inferred  from  the  door-plate  -of  some  decent  shop- 
keeper's widow.  "I'll  lay  you  a  guiniMi,"  said  Theodore,  "that  in 
one  week  that  nice  quiet  dwelling  shall  be  tho  most  famous  in  all 
London."  The  bet  was  taken,  and  in  the  course  of  four  or 
five  days.  Hook  had  written  and  posted  ojie  thousand  letters,  an- 
nexing orders  to  tradesmen  of  every  sort  within  the  bills  of  mar- 
tality,  all  to  be  executed  on  one  particular  day,  and  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible at  one  fixed  hour.  From  ' '  wagons  of  coals  and  potatoes,  to 
books,  prints,  feathers,  ices,  jellies,  and  cranberry  tarts,"  nothinp:in 
any  way  whatever  available  to  any  humnn  being  but  was  commanded 
from  scores  of  rival  dealers,  scattered  all  over  the  city,  from  Wapping 
to  Lambeth,  from  Whitechapel  to  Paddington.  It  can  only  be  feebly 
imagined  what  the  crash  and  jam  and  tumult  of  that  day  was. 
Hook  had  provided  himself  with  a  lodging  nearly  opposite  tho 
fated  house,  where,  with  a  couple  of  trusty  allies,  he  watched  the 
progress  of  the  melodrama.  The  mayor  and  his  chaplain  arrived, — 
invited  there  to  take  the  death-bed  confession  of  a  peculating  com- 
mon-councilman. There  also  came  the  Governor  of  the  Bank, 
the  Chairman  of  the  East  India  Company,  the  Lord  Chief  Justice, 
and  the  Prime  Minister, — above  all,  there  came  his  Grace  the 
Archbishop  cf  Canterbury,  and  His  Royal  Highness  'the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief. These  all  obeyed  the  summons,  for  every  pious 
and  patriotic  feeling  had  been  most  movingly  appealed  to.  They 
could  not  all  reach  Berners  Street,  however, — the  avenues  leading 
to  it  being  jammed  up  with  drays,  carts,  and  carriages,  all  pressing 
on  to  the  solitary  widow's  house;  but  certainly  the  Duke  of  York's 
military  punctuality  and  crimson  liveries  brought  him  to  tho  point 
of  attack  before  the  poor  woman's  astonishment  had  risen  to  terror 
and  despair.  Most  fierce  were  the  growlings  of  doctors  and  sur- 
geons, scores  of  whom  had  been  cheated  of  valuable  hours.  Attor- 
neys, teachers  of  every  kind,  male  and  female,  hair-dressers,  tailors, 
popular  preachers,  Parliamentary  philanthropists,  had  been  alike 
victimized.  There  was  an  awful  smashing  of  glass,  china,  harpsi- 
chords, and  coach-panels.  Many  a  horse  fell,  never  to  rise  again. 
Beer-barrels  and  wine-barrels  were  overturned  and  exhausted  with 
impunity  amidst  the  press  of  countless  multitudes.  It  was  a  great 
day  for  the  pickpockets:  and  a  great  godsend  to  the  newspapers. 


THEODOUE  PIOOK.  171 

Then  arose  many  a  fervent  hue  and  cry  for  the  detection  of  the 
wholesale  deceiver  and  destroyer.  Though  in  Hook's  own  theatrical 
world  he  was  instantly  suspected,  no  sign  escaped  either  him  or  hia 
confidants.  He  found  it  convenient  to  be  laid  up  a  week  or  two  by 
a  severe  fit  of  illness,  and  then  promoted  reoonvalescence  by  a  few 
weeks'  country  tour.  He  revisited  Oxford,  and  professed  an  inten- 
tion of  commencing  his  residence  there.  But  the  storm  blew  over, 
and  Hook  returned  with  tranquillity  to  the  green-room.  This  was 
followed  by  other  tricks  and  hoaxes,,  in  one  of  which  he  made 
Romeo  Coates  his  victim.  These  may  be  found  detailed  at  some 
length  in  "  Gilbert  Gurney,"  and  in  Mrs.  Mathews's  Memoirs  of  her 
husband,  who  was  usually  Hook's  accomplice  in  such  kinds  of  mis- 
chief. 

One  of  Hook's  extraordinary  talents— which  amounted  in  him  to 
almost  a  genius — was  his  gift  of  singing,  improvised  songs  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  while  under  the  influence  of  excited  convivial 
feelings.  He  would  sit  down  to  the  piano-forte,  and,  quite  unhesi- 
tatingly, compose  a  verse  upon  every  person  in  the  room,  full  of  the 
most  pointed  wit,  and  with  the  truest  rhyme,  gathering  up,  as  he 
proceeded,  every  incident  of  the  evening,  and  working  up  the  whole 
into  ft  brilliant  song.  He  would  often,  like  John  Parry,  sport  with 
operatic  measures,  in  which  he  would  triumph  over  every  variety  of 
meter  and  complication  of  stanza.  But  John  Parry's  exhibitions 
are  carefully  studied,  whereas  Hook's  happiest  effects  were  spon- 
taneous and  unpremeditated.  The  effect  he  produced  on  such 
occasions  was  almost  marvelous.  Sheridan  frequently  witnessed 
these  exhibitions,  and  declared  that  he  could  not  have  believed  such 
power  possible,  had  he  not  witnessed  it.  Of  course,  Hook  was 
usually  stimulated  by  wine  or  punch  when  he  ventured  on  such  ex- 
ploits; and  it  is  recorded,  that  during  one  of  his  songs,  at  which 
Coleridge  was  present,  every  pane  in  the  room  window  was  riddled 
by  the  glasses  flung  through  them  by  the  guests,  the  host  crowning 
the  bacchanalian  riot  by  demolishing  the  chandelier  with  his  goblet. 

Hook's  fame  as  a  wit,  a  jester,  a  talker,  and  an  improvisatore 
singer,  shortly  reached  aristocratic  circles;  and  he  was  invited  to 
their  houses  to  make  sport  for  them.  Sheridan  mentioned  him  to 
the  Marchioness  of  Hertford  as  a  most  amusing  fellow,  and  he  was 
shortly  after  called  upon  to  display  his  musical  and  metrical  facility 
in  her  ladyship's  presence;  which  he  did.  He  was  called,  in  like 
manner,  to  minister  to  the  amusement  of  the  Sybarite  Prince  Regent 
at  a  supper  in  Manchester  Square,  and  he  so  delighted  his  Royal 
Highness,  that,  on  leaving  the  room,  he  said,  **  Mr.  Hook  I  must  see 
you  and  hear  you  again."  Hook  was  only  too  glad  to  play  merry- 
andrew  to  the  Prince;  and,  after  a  few  similar  evenings,  his  Royal 
Highness  was  so  good  as  to  make  inquiry  about  Hook's  position, 
when,  finding  he  was  without  a  profession  or  fixed  income  of  any 
sort,  he  signified  his  opinion  that  "something  must  be  done  for 


172  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

Hook/'  As  the  -word  of  the  Prince  was  equivalent  to  a  law,  and 
quiet  jobs  were  easily  done  in  those  days,  Hook's  promotion  fol- 
-  lowed  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ho  was  almost  immediately  after  ap- 
pointed Accountant-General  and  Treasurer  to  tlie  Colony  of  tlie 
il.iuritiuB,  with  an  income  of  £2,000  a  year.  Hook  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  accounts;  but  he  had  the  Prince  Kegent's  good  word,  and 
that  was  enough.  He  stayed  five  years  in  the  Mauritius,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  duties  of  his  office,  living  in  great  style,  a  leading 
man  on  the  turf,  the  very  prince  of  Mauritian  hospitality.  But  it 
canio  to  a  sad  end.  In  March,  1818,  Hook  was  arrested,  while  sup- 
ping at  a  friend's  house,  and  dragged,  by  torchlight,  through 
crowded  streets,  to  the  common  prison  of  the  town,  on  a  charge  of 
embezzling  the  public  moneys  in  the  colonial  treasury  to  a  largo 
amount !  From  thence  he  was  conveyed  to  England,  tried  before 
the  law  officers  of  the  crown,  and  brought  in  as  defaulter  to  the  ex- 
tent of  £12,0o0.  This  debt  he  never  paid;  though  his  earninp;s  by 
his  pen,  for  many  years  after,  were  very  large.  Into  the  merits  of 
the  case  against  Hook  we  shall  not  here  enter;  but  as  the  govern- 
ment which  brought  him  to  book  was  friendly  to  him,  and  under  the 
influences  of  many  of  his  personal  friends,  we  must  presume  the 
fluirges  to  have  been  well  founded.  The  most  favorable  view  of 
is  case  that  can  be  taken  is  this:  that  5o»?ie5od!/ embezzled  the 
>ionial  moneys;  but  as  Hook  had  no  knowledge  of  accounts,  and 
ircly  took  any  concern  in  the  treasury  business,  spending  his 
2,000  a  vear  in  the  manner  of  a  gentlemanly  sinecurist,  the  colonial 
lands  were  ** mumbled  away,"  and  Hook,  being  the  responsible 
party,  was  saddled  with  the  blame. 

On  reaching  London  again,  to  wait  the  issue  of  the  government  in- 
vestigation, he  was  set  at  liberty,  on  the  Attorney-Gerieral's  report. 
lUat  there  was  no  api)nrent  ground  for  a  criminal  procedure;  and 
the  case  was  treated  as  one  of  defalcation  and  civil  prosecution  only. 
In  order  to  live  in  the  meanwhile,  Hook  had  recourse  to  his  ever- 
ready  pen.  First,  he  wrote  for  magazines  and  newspapers;  then  he 
tried  a  shilling  magazine,  called  The  Arcadian,  of  which  only  a 
f .  w  numbers  were  issued,  when  the  publisher  lost  heart  In  1820, 
Sir  Walter  Scott  accidentally  met  Hook  at  a  dinner-party  at  Daniel 
Terry's,  and  was  delighted,  as  everybody  could  not  help  being,  with 
Hook's  brilliant  conversation.  Hook,  notwithstanding  the  affair  of 
his  colonial  defalcations,  and  the  prosecution  of  him  by  the  Audit 
Board,  still  held  his  **good  old  Tory  '*  views  of  politics;  and  grate- 
fully remembered  his  personal  obligations  to  the  Prince  llegent, 
now  the  reigning  monarch.  He  was  consequently  violently  opposed 
to  the  pretensions  and  partisans  of  Queen  Caroline.  The  strong 
color  of  his  politics  induced  Scott  to  mention  Hook  to  a  gentleman 
who  shortly  after  applied  to  him  to  recommend  an  editor  for  a 
newspaper  about  to  be  established.  To  this  circumstance  his  con- 
nection with  the  famous  •*  John  Bull"  is  probably  to  oe  attributed. 


THEOBOEE  KOOH.  173" 

At  all  events,  the  Jolm  Bull  shortly  after  came  out,  with  Hook  for 
its  editor.  But  he  preserved  his  incognito  carefully  for  many  years; 
which  was  the  more  necessary  in  consequence  of  the  thick  cloud 
which  still  hung  over  his  moral  character  in  connection  with  his 
colonial  affair.  Hook  threw  himself  with  great  fury  into  the  ranks 
of  the  Georgites,  and  published  many  violent  squibs  against  Queen 
Caroline  and  her  friends,  which  excited  a  storm  of  popular  indig- 
nation. The  John  Bull  was  generally  admitted  to  be  the  most 
powerful,  unscrupulous,  and  violent  advocate  of  the  king's  cause; 
whether  it  was  the  better  for  the  advocacy,  we  shall  not  here  venture 
to  determine.  The  paper  was  well  supported  with  money, — as  was 
surmised,  from  ** headquarters;**  and  for  some  years  Hook's  in- 
come from  the  John  Bull  alone,  amounted  to  as  much  as  £2,000  a 
year.  At  length  it  began  to  ooze  out  that  Hook  was  the  editor  of 
the  John  Bull.  Though  furnishing  nearly  the  whole  of  the  articles 
and  squibs  which  appeared  in  it,  he  at  once  indignantly  denied  the 
imputation  in  a  letter,  **the  editor,"  in  which  he  disclaimed  and 
disavowed  all  connection  with  the  paper.  But,  by  slow  degrees,  the 
truth  came  out  and  at  last  all  was  known.  The  John  Bull  was  de- 
nounced by  many  as  a  reckless,"  "venomous,"  ** malignant," 
"lying  "  publication;  and  by  others  it  was  defended  as  a  "spirited," 
"courageous,"  "loyal,"  and  "admirable"  defender  of  the  church, 
crown,  and  constitution. 

In  1823  Hook  was  arrested  for  the  sum  of  £12,000,  which  the 
authorities  had  finally  decided  that  he  stood  indebted  to  the  pub- 
lic exchequer.  He  was  then  confined  in  a  sheriffs  house 
in  Shire  Lane, — a  miserable,  squalid  neighborhood.  He  remained 
there  for  several  months,  during  which  his  health  seriously  suffered. 
While  shut  up  in  Shire  Lane  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Dr. 
William  Maginn,  who  had  recently  comBOver  from  Ireland,  a  liter- 
ary adventurer,  but  had  fallen  into  the  sheriff's  officer's  ciistody. 
It  was  a  lucky  meeting  for  both,  however,  as  Maginn  j) roved  of  great 
assistance  to  Hook,  in  furnishing  the  requisite  amount  of  "  spicy" 
copy  for  the  columns  of  the  John  Bull.  Hook  was  transferred  to 
the  rules  of  the  King's  Bench,  where  he  remained  for  a  year,  and 
afterwards  succeeded  in  getting  liberated ;  but  was  told  distinctly 
that  the  debt  must  hang  over  him  until  every  farthing  was  paid. 
He  then  took  a  cottage  at  Putney,  and  re-entered  society  again.  He 
had  for  companion  here  a  young  woman  whom  he  ought  to  have 
married ;  that  he  did  not — that  he  left  upon  the  heads  of  his  innocent 
offspring  by  her  a  stigma  and  a  stain  in  the  eyes  of  the  Vv^orld — vras 
only,  we  regret  to  say,  too  much  in  keeping  with  the  character  and 
career  of  the  reckless,  unscrupulous,  and  feeble-conscienced  Theo- 
dore Hook. 

While  living  in  his  apartments  at  Temple  Place,  wiihin  the  rules 
of  the  King's  J3ench,  Hook  had  begun  his  career  as  a  novelist.  His 
first  series  of  "  Sayings  and  Doings"  was  very  successful,  and  yield- 


174  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

ed'.him  a  profit  "of  £2,000.  JThe  second  and  third  series  were  equally 
Buccessful.  His  other  novels,  entitled  "Maxwell,"  **The  Parson's 
Daughter,"  "Love  and  Pride,  "  were  also  successful,  and  paid 
him  well.  In  1836  he  became  the  editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, in  which  he  published  "Gilbert  Gurney  "  (perhaps the  raciest 
of  all  his  novels,  being  chiefly  drawn  from  his  own  personal  expe- 
riences), and  afterwards  "  Gurney  Married,"  **  Jack  Brag,"  "Births, 
Deaths,  and  Marriages,"  **  Precepts  and  Practice,  "and  "  Fathers  and 
Sons."  These  were  all  collected  and  republished  afterwards  in  sep- 
arate forms.  The  number  of  these  works, — thirty-eight  volumes, 
— which  he  wrote  within  sixteen  years,  at  the  time  when  he  was 
editor  and  almost  sole  writer  for  a  newspaper,  and  for  several  years 
the  conductor  of  a  Magazine,  argue  a  by  no  means  idle  disposition. 
Indeed,  Hook  worked  very  hard;  the  pity  is  that  he  worked  to  so 
little  purpose,  and  tJiat  he  squandered  the  money  with  which  he 
ought  to  have  paid  his  debts  (and  he  himself  admitted  that  he  was 
in  justice  responsible  for  £9,000)  in  vying  with  fashionable  people 
to  keep  up  appearances,  and  live  a  worthless  life  of  dissipation, 
frivolity,  and  burlesque  "bon  ton."  For  many  years  Hook  must 
have  been  earning  from  £4,000  to  £5,000  a  year  by  his  pen,  and 
yet  he  was  always  poor  !  How  did  he  spend  his  earnings  ?  JiCt  the 
ifriend  who  has  written  the  sketch  of  him  in  the  Quarterly  Review 
explain  the  secret: 

"In  1827  (after  leaving  his  house  at  Putney)  he  took  a  higher 
flight.  He  became  the  tenant  of  a  house  in  Cleveland  Row, — on  the 
edge,  therefore,  of  what,  in  one  of  his  novels,  he  describes  as  the 
•real  London, — the  space  between  Pall  Mall  on  the  south,  and  Pic- 
cadilly on  the  north,  St.  James's  Street  on  the  west,  and  the  Opera 
House  to  the  east.*  The  residence  was  handsome,  and,  to  persotis 
ignorant  of  his  domestic  arrangements,  appeared  extravagantly  too 
large  for  his  purpose;  we  have  since  heard  of  it  as  inhabited  by  a 
nobleman  of  distinction.  He  was  admitted  a  member  of  diverse 
clubs;  shone  the  first  attraction  of  their  House  dinners;  and,  in  such 
as  allowed  of  play,  he  might  commonly  be  seen  in  the  course  of  his 
protracted  evening.  Presently  he  began  to  receive  invitations  to 
great  houses  in  the  country,  and,  for  week  after  week,  often  traveled 
ifrom  one  to  another  such  scene,  to  all  outward  appearance  in  the 
style  of  an  idler  of  high  condition.  In  a  word,  he  had  soon  entangled 
himself  with  habits  and  connections  which  implied  much  curtailment 
of  the  time  for  labor  at  the  desk,  and  a  course  of  expenditure  more  than 
sufficient  to  swallow  all  the  profits  of  what  remained.  To  the  upper 
world  he  was  visible  solely  as  the  jocund  convivialist  of  the  club, — 
the  brilliant  wit  of  the  lordly  banquet, —  the  lion  of  the  crowded  as- 
Bombly,— the  star  of  a  Christmas  or  Easter  ])arty  in  a  rural  palace,— 
the  unfailing  stage-manager,  prompter,  author,  and  occasionally  ex- 
cellent comic  actor,  of  the  private  theatricals,  atwhiclj  noble  guards- 
men were  the  valets,  and  lovely  peeresses  the  soubrettes." 


I 


theodoue  hook.  17s 


Thus  did  the  brilliant  Hook  flutter  like  a  dazzled  moth  around 
the  burning  taper  of  aristocracy,  scorching  his  wings,  and  at  length 
sinking  destroj'^ed  by  the  seductive  blaze,  when  he  was  at  once 
swept  away  as  some  unsightly  object. 

It  was  a  feverish,  miserable,  unhealthy  life,  with  scarcely  a  re- 
deeming feature  in  it.  To  make  up  for  the  time  devoted  by  him  to 
the  amusement  of  aristocratic  circles,  and  to  raise  the  money 
wherewithal  to  carry  on  this  brilliant  dissipation,  as  well  as  to 
relieve  himself  of  the  pressure  of  his  more  urgent  pecuniary  embar- 
rassments. Hook  worked  day  and  night  when  at  his  own  house, 
often  under  the  influence  of  stimulants,  and  thus  increased  the 
nervous  agonies  of  a  frame  prematurely  "wasted  and  exhausted. 
Meanwhile  he  was  pressed  by  his  publisher,  into  whose  debt  he  had 
fallen  ;  and  publishers,  in  such  a  case,  are  exacting,  like  everybody 
else  in  similar  circumstances.  Debts — debts — forever  debts — accum- 
ulated about  Hook,  each  debt  a  grinning  phantom,  mocking  at  hiui 
even  in  the  midst  of  his  gayest  pleasures.  * 'Little  did  his  fine 
friends  know  at  what  tear  and  wear.of  life  he  was  devoting  his  even- 
ings to  their  amusement.  The  ministrants  of  pleasure  with  whom 
they  measured  him  were  almost  all  as  idle  as  themselves, — elegant, 
accomplished  men,  easy  in  circumstances,  with  ] eisure  at  command, 
who  drove  to  the  rendezvous  after  a  morning  divided  between  vol- 
uptuous lounging  in  a  library  chair  and  healthful  exercise  out  of 
doors.  But  he  came  forth,  at  hest^  from  a  long  day  of  labor  at  hLi 
writing-desk,  after  his  faculties  had  been  kept  on  the  stretch, — feel- 
ing, passion,  thought,  fancy,  excitable  nerves,  suicidal  brain,  all 
worked,  perhaps  well-nigh  exhausted, — compelled,  since  he  came  at 
all,  to  disappoint  by  silence,  or  to  eeek  the  support  of  tempting 
stimulants  in  his  new  career  of  exertion.  And  we  may  guess  what 
must  have  been  the  effect  on  his  mind  of  the  consciousness,  while 
seated  among  the  revelers  of  a  princely  saloon,  that  next  morning 
must  be,  not  given  to  the  mere  toil  of  the  pen,  but  divided  between 
scenes  in  the  back-  shops  of  three  or  four  eager,  irritated  booksell- 
ers, and  weary  prowlings  through  the  dens  of  city  usurers  for  the 
means  of  discounting  this  long  bill,*  staving  off  that  attorney's  threat; 
not  less  commonly — even  more  urgqptly — of  liquidating  a  debt  of 
honor  to  the  grandee,  or  some  of  the  smiling  satellites  of  his  pomp. 

**  There  is  recorded  (in  his  diary)  in  more  than  usual  detail,  one 
winter  visit  at  the  seat  of  a  nobleman  of  almost  unequaled  wealth 
(Marquis  of  Hertford  ?),  evidently  particularly  fond  of  Hook,  and 
always  mentioned  in  terms  of  real  gratitude, — even  affection.  Hero 
was  adarge  company,  including  some  of  the  very  highest  names  in 
England;  the  party  seem  to  have  remained  together  for  more  than  a 
fortnight,  or,  if  one  went,  the  place  was  filled  immediately  by 
another  not  less  distinguished  by  the  advantages  of  birth  and  for- 
tune ;  Hook's  is  the  only  untitled  name,  except  a  led  captain 
and  cliapiain  or  twa,  and  some  miss«s  of  musical  celebrity.     What 


176  BKIEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

a  struggle  lie  lias  to  maintain  !  Every  Thursday  he  mn^.t  meet  tlio 
printer  of  the  John  Bull  to  arrange  the  paper  for  Saturday 'b  im- 
pression. While  the  rest  are  shooting  or  hunting,  he  clears  his 
head  as  well  as  he  can,  and  steals  a  few  hours  to  write  his  articles. 
When  they  go  to  bed  on  Wednesday  night,  he  smuggles  himself 
into  a  post-chaise,  and  is  carried  fifty  miles  across  the  country,  to 
some  appointed  Blue  Boar,  or  Crooked  Billet.  Thursday  morning 
is  spent  in  overhauling  correspondence,— in  all  the  details  of  the 
editorship.  He,  with  hard  driving,  gets  back  to  the  neighborhood 
of  the  castle  when  the  dressing-bell  is  ringing.  Mr.  Hook's  servant 
has  intimated  that  his  master  is  slightly  indisposed;  he  enters  the 
gate  as  if  from  a  short  walk  in  the  wood ;  in  half  an  hour,  behold 
him  answering  placidly  the  inquiries  of  the  ladies, — his  headache 
fortunately  gone  at  last, -^quite  ready  for  the  turtle  and  champagne, — 
puns  rattle  like  a  hail-shower, — *that  dear  Theodore'  had  never 
been  more  brilliant.  At  a  decorous  hour  the  great  lord  and  his 
graver  guests  retire;  it  is  supposed  that  the  evening  is  over, — that 
the  house  is  shut  up.  But  Hook  is  qu;irtered  in  a  long  bach- 
elor's gallery,  with  half-a-dozen  bachi  lors  of  far  different  cali- 
ber. One  of  them,  a  dashing  young  earl,  proposes  what  tlio 
diary  calls  'something  comfortable*  in  his  dressing-room.  Hook, 
after  his  sleepless  night  and  busy  day,  hesitates, — but  is  ])er- 
Buaded.  The  broiled  bones  are  attended  by  more  champagntj, 
Roman  punch,  hot  brandy  and  water,  finally;  for  there  are  plenty 
of  butlers  and  grooms  of  the  chamber  ready  to  minister  to  the  de- 
lights of  the  distant  gallery,  ever  productive  of  fees  to  man  and 
maid.  The  end  is,  that  they  play  deep,  and  that  Theodore  loses 
a  great  deal  more  money  than  what  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
town,  or  knows  how  to  come  at  if  he  were  there.  But  he  rise:, 
next  morning  with  a  swimming,  bewildered  head,  and,  as  the 
fumes  disperse,  perceives  that  he  must  write  instantly  for  money. 
No  difficulty  is  to  be  made;  the  fashionable  tailor  (alias,  merciless 
Jew)  to  whom  he  discloses  the  case,  must  on  any  terms  remit  a 
hundred  pounds  by  return  of  post.  It  is  accomplished, — the  debt 
is  discharged.  Thursday  comes  found  again,  and  again  he  escapes  to 
meet  the  printer.  This  time  the  printer  brings  a  payment  of  salary 
with  him,  and  Hook  drives  back  to  the  castle  in  great  glee.  Exactly 
the  same  scene  occurs  a  night  or  two  afterward.  The  salary  all  gees. 
When  the  time  comes  for  him  at  last  to  leave  his  splendid  friend, 
he  finds  that  he  has  lost  a  fortnight  as  respects  a  book  that  must  be 
finished  within  a  month  or  six  weeks;  and  that  what  with  traveling 
expenses  hither  and  thither  (he has  to  defray  the  printer's,  too),  and 
losses  at  play  to  silken  coxcombs, — who  considered  him  an  admira- 
ble jack-pudding,  and  also  as  an  invaluable  pigeon,  since  he  drains 
his  glass  as  well  as  fills  it, — he  has  throvm  away  more  money  than 
he  could  have  earned  by  the  labor  of  three  months  in  his  own  room 
at  Fulham.    But  then  the  rumble  of  the  green  chariot  is  seen  vreil- 


THEODOKE  HOOIL  177 

stocked  with  pheasants  and  hares,  as  it  pauses  in  passing  through 
town  at  Crockford's,  the  Carlton,  or  the  Athensenm ;  and  as  often  as 
the  Morning  Post  alluded  to  the  nobler  peers  Christmas  court,  Mr. 
Theodore  Hook's  name  closed  the  paragraph  of  'fashionable  in- 
telligence. ' " 

Bat  at  last  the  end  of  all  came,  and  the  poor  jester  and  bon-yiant 
strutted  olf  the  stage.  To  the  last,  even  when  positively  ill,  he 
could  not  refuse  an  invitation  to  dine  with  titled  people.  To  the 
last, — padded-up  old  man,— he  tried  to  be  effervescent  and  gay.  Ke 
died  in  August,  1841,  and  the  play  was  ended.  SoDie  may  call  such 
a  life  as  this  a  tragedy,  and  a  painful  one  it  seems.  To  look  at  it 
now,  there  appears  little  genuine  mirth  in  it;  the  laughter  was  all 
hollow.  As  for  the  noble  and  titled  friends  for  whom  Hook  had 
made  so  much  merriment  during  his  unhapjjy  life,  they  let  him  die 
overburdened  with  debt,  and  go  to  his  grave  unwept  and  unattended. 
They  did  nothing  for  his  children, — it  is  true  they  were  such  as 
the  respectable  world  usually  disown;  and  they  did  not,  so  far  as 
we  know,  pla-e  a  stone  over  the  grave  in  which  their  jester  was  laid 
to  sleep.  Notwithstanding  Theodore  Hook's  naturally  brilliant 
powers^ — his  sagacity,  his  humor,  his  genius, — we  fear  that  the  v»^r- 
diet  of 'his  survivors  and  of  posterity  will  be,  that  here  was  the  life 
of  a  greatly  gifted  man  worse  than  wasted. 


DR.  ANDREW  COMBE. 


THE  life  of  Andrew  Combe  was  qniet  and  nnostentatious.  It 
was  chiefly  occupied  by  the  investigations  and  labors  incident 
to  the  calling  v/hich  he  had  chosen, — that  of  medicine; — a 
profession  which,  when  followed  successfully,  leaves  comparatively 
little  leisure  for  the  indulgence  of  literary  tastes.  Yet  we  do  not  ex- 
aggerate when  we  say,  that  there  are  few  writers  who  have  effected 
greater  practical  good,  and  done  more  to  beneficially  affect  the 
moral  and  physical  well-being  of  mankind,  than  the  subject  of 
this  memoir.  He  was  one  of  the  first  writers  who  directed  public 
attention  to  the  subject  of  physiology,  in  connection  with  health  and 
education.  There  had,  indeed,  been  no  want  of  writers  on 
physiology  previous  to  this  time;  but  they  addressed  themselves 
mainly  to  the  professional  mind;  and  their  books  w^ere,  for  the  most 
part,  no  full  of  technical  phrases,  that,  so  far  as  the  public  was  con- 
cerned, they  might  as  well  have  been  written  in  an  unknovrn 
tongue.  As  Dr.  Combe  grew  up  towards  manhood,  and  acquired 
habits  of  independent  observation,  he  perceived  that  the  majority 
of  men  and  women  were,  for  the  most  part,  living  in  habitual  vio- 
lation of  the  laws  of  health,  and  thus  bringing  upon  them  debility, 
disease,  premature  decay,  and  death;  not  to  speak  of  generations 
unborn,  on  whom  the  penalty  of  neglect  or  violation  of  the  physi- 
ological laws  inevitably  descends.  He  conceived  the  idea  of  in- 
structing the  people  in  those  laws,  in  a  simple  and  intelligible 
manner,  and  in  language  divested  of  technical  terms.  And  there 
are  words  enough  in  the  English  tongue  in  which  to  utter  common 
sense  to  common  people  upon  such  subjects  as  air,  exercise,  diet, 
cleanliness,  and  so  on,  as  affecting  the  healthy  lives  of  human 
beings,  without  drawing  so  largely  as  had  been  customary  upou 

Greek  and  Latin  terminology  for  the  purpoiie.  

17S  *  i     ''"-'' 


DR.  A]sDT^,EW  COMBE.  179 

Dr.  Combe's  first  book,  on  "  The  Principles  of  Physiology  applied 
to  the  Preservation  of  Health,  and  to  the  Improvement  of  Physical 
and  Mental  Education,"  was  written  in  this  rational  and  common- 
sense  style.  In  that  work  Dr.  Combe  appealed  to  the  ordinary, 
average  understandings  of  men.  He  explained  the  laws  which 
regulate  the  physical  life, — the  conditions  necessary  for  the  healthy 
action  of  the  various  functions  of  the  systt  m  ;  and  directed  par- 
ticular attention  to  those  habits  and  practices  which  were  in  viola- 
tion of  the  natural  laws,  pointing  out  the  necessity  for  amendment 
in  various  ways,  in  a  cogent,  persuasive,  and  perspicuous  manner. 
"We  remember  very  well  the  appearance  of  the  book  in  question. 
It  excited  comparatively  small  attention  at  first, — the  subject  was 
unusual,  and  up  to  that  time  deemed  so  unattractive.  People  were 
afraid  then,  as  they  often  are  now,  to  look  into  their  own  physical 
system,  and  learn  something  of  its  working.  There  is  alarm  to 
many  minds,  in  the  thought  of  the  heart  beating,  and  the  lungs 
blowing,  and  the  arteries  contracting  upon  their  red  blood.  The 
consideration  of  such  subjects  used  formerly  to  be  regarded  as 
strictly  professional:  and  people  were  for  the  most  part  satisfied  to 
leave  health,  and  all  that  concerned  it,  to  the  exclusive  charge  of 
"the  doctors."  And,  truth  to  say,  medical  men  were  disposed  to 
regard  the  publication  of  Dr.  Combe's  "Physiology*'  as  somewhat 
"infra  dig.  ;  for  it  looked  like  a  revealing  of  the  secrets  of  the  pro- 
fession before  the  eyes  of  the  general  public.  But  all  such  feeling 
has  long  since  disappeared,  and  medical  men  now  find  that  they 
have  in  the  readers  of  good  works  on  popular  physiology  mors  in- 
telligent patients  to  deal  with, — more  able  to  co-operate  with  them 
in  their  attempts  to  subdue  disease  and  restore  the  bodily  functions 
to  health, — than  when  they  have  mere  blank  ignorance  and  blind 
prejudice  to  encounter.  Where  there  is  not  sound  information, 
there  will  always  be  found  prejudice  enough, — the  most  difficult  of 
all  things  to  contend  against.  It  is  not  improbable,  also,  that  to 
the  growing  popular  knowledge  of  physiological  conditions  we  are, 
in  a  great  measure,  to  attribute  the  improvement  in  the  medical 
profession  which  has  taken  place  of  late  years.  For  medical  men 
are  the  better  for  knowing  that,  in  order  to  make  good  their  influence 
and  to  advance  as  a  profession,  they  must  keep  well  ahead  of  the 
intelligence  of  their  employers.  Everybody  knows  that  questions 
of  health, — as  affecting  the  sanitary  condition  of  towns, — are  among 
the  leading  questions  of  this  day;  and  we  cannot  help  attributing 
much  of  the  active  concern  which  now  exists  among  legislators, 
philanthropists,  and  all  public-spirited  men,  for  the  improvement 
of  the  physical  condition  of  the  people,  to  the  impulse  given  to  the 
subject  by  the  publication  of  Dr.  Combe's  admirable  books. 

Dr.  Combe  was  himself  a  serious  sufferer  through  neglect  of  the 
laws  of  physical  health;  and  it  was  probably  this  circumstance 
which  .early  directed  his  attention  to  the  subject,  and  induced  him 


180  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

.to  give  it  the  prominency  which  he  did  in  nearly  all  his  published 
.  v/orks.  Ho  was  the  fifteenth  child  of  respectable  parents,  living  in 
Edinburgh:  his  father  was  a  brewer  at  Livingston's  Yards,  a  suburb 
of  the  Old  Town,  situated  nearly  under  the  southwest  angle  of 
Edinburgh  Castle  rock.  Seventeen  children  in  all  were  born  to  the 
Combes  in  that  place;  but  the  neighborhood  abounded  with  ofifen- 
sive  pools  and  ditches,  the  noxious  influence  of  which  (in  conjunction 
with  defective  ventilation  in  small  or  over-crowded  sleeping  apart- 
ments) must  have  been  a  potent  cause  of  the  disease  and  early  mor- 
tality which  prevailed  in  the  family.  Very  few  of  the  seventeen 
children  grew  up  to  adult  years;  and  although  the  parents,  who 
were  of  robust  constitution,  lived  to  an  old  age,  those  of  the  chil- 
dren who  survived  grew  up  with  feeble  constitutions,  and,  in 
Andrew's  case,  containing  within  them  the  seeds  of  serious  disease. 
Kor  was  the  mental  discipline  of  the  children  of  a  much  healthier 
land.  As  an  illustration,  George  Combe,  in  the  life  of  his  brother, 
recently  published,  gives  the  following  picture  of  the  Sabbath,  as 
spent  in  a  Scotch  family: 

"The  gate  of  the  brewery  was  locked,  and  all  except  the  most 
nocessarj^  work  was  suspended.  The  children  rose  at  eight,  break- 
fasted at  nine,  and  were  taken  to  the  West  .Church  at  eleven.  The 
forenoon  service  lasted  till  one.  There  was  a  lunch  between  one 
and  two.  The  afternoon's  service  lasted  from  two  till  four.  They 
Ihen  dined;  and  after  dinner,  portions  of  the  Psalms  and  of  the 
Shorter  Catechism  with  the  'Proofs*  were  prescribed  to  be  learned  by 
]icart.  Afte'r  these  had  been  repeated,  tea  was  served.  Next  the 
children  sat  round  a  table  and  read  the  Bible  aloud,  each  a  verse  in 
turn,  till  a  chapter  for  every  reader  had  been  completed.  After  this, 
sermons  or  other  pious  works  were  read  till  nine  o'clock,  when 
supper  was  served,  after  which  all  retired  to  rest.  Jaded  and  ex- 
hausted in  brain  and  body  as  the  children  were  by  the  performance 
of  heavy  tasks  at  school  during  six  days  of  the  week,  these  Sundays 
were  no  days  of  rest  to  them." 

From  a  private  school,  Andrew  Combe  proceeded  to  the  high 
Kchool,  and  then  he  was  placed  apprentice  to  an  Edinburgh  sur- 
geon. He  was  singularly  obstinate  in  connection  with  his  entry 
upon  his  profession.  Although  he  had  chosen  to  be  **a  doctor," 
when  finally  asked  •*  what  he  would  be,"  his  answer  in  the  vernacu- 
lar Scotch  was,  "I'll  no  be  naething."  He  would  give  no  further 
answer;  and  after  all  kinds  of  "fieechin"  and  persuading  were 
tried,  he  at  length  had  to  be  carried  by  force  out  of  the  house,  to 
begin  his  professional  career.  His  father  and  brother  George,  alter- 
wards  his  biographer,  with  a  younger  brother,  James,  performed 
this  remarkable  duty.     George  thus  describes  the  scene. 

A  consultation  was  now  helrl  as  to  what  was  to  be  done;  and 
again  it  was  resolved  that  Andrew  should  not  be  allowed  to  con- 
quer, seeing  that  he  Btill  assigned  no  reason  lor  his  resistance. 


DK.  ANDREW  COMBE,   '  181 

He  was,  therefore,  lifted  from  the  ground ;  he  refused  to  stand;  but 
his  father  supported  one  shoulder,  George  carried  the  other,  and 
his  younger  brother,  James,  pushed  him  on  behind;  and  in  this 
fashion  he  was  carried  from  the  house,  through  the  brewery,  and  sev- 
eral hundred  yards  along  tho  high  road,  before  he  placed  a  foot  on 
the  ground.  His  elder  brother  John,  observing  what  was  passing, 
anxiously  inquired,  "What's  the  matter?'*  James  replied,  "We 
are  taking  Andrew  to  the  doctor.*'  "To  the  doctor!  what's  the 
matter  with  him,  — is  he  ill,  James  ?  "  "  O,  not  at  all, — we  are  taking 
him  to  make  him  a  doctor*"  '  At  last,  Andrew's  sense  of  shame  pre- 
vailed, and  he  walked  quietly.  His  father  and  George  accompa- 
nied him  to  Mr.  Johnson's  house  ;  Andrew  was  introduced  and 
received,  and  his  father  left  him.  George  inquired  what  had  passed 
in  Mr.  Johnson's  presence.  "Nothing  particular,"  replied  his 
father;  **only  my  conscience  smote  me  when  Mr.  Johnson  *  hoped 
that  Andrew  had  come  quite  willingly  !*  I  replied,  thati  had  given 
hi^  a  solemn  promise  that,  if  he  did  not  like  the  profession  after  a 
tvial,  he  should  be  at  liberty  to  leave  it."  "Quite  right,'  said  Mr. 
Johnson;  and  Andrew  was  conducted  to  the  laboratory.  Andrew 
returned  to  Mr.  Johnson's  the  next  morning  without  being  asked 
to  do  so;  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  was  fond  of  his  profession. 

In  a  touching  letter  to  George,  written  nearly  thirty  years  after 
the  above  event,  he  thanked  him  cordially  for  having  been  instru- 
mental in  sending  him  to  a  liberal  j)rofession;  and  he  confesses  that 
he  really  "wished  and  meant  to  be  a  doctor,"  notwithstanding  his 
absurd  way  of  showing  his  willingness.  Always  ready;  as  both  he 
and  his  brother  were,  to  account  for  everything  phrenoiogically,  he 
attributed  the  resistance  on  the  occasion  to  wit  and  secretiveness. 
"I  recollect  well,"  he  says  in  the  letter  referred  to,  "that  my  habit- 
ual phrase  was,  *ril  no  be  naething.'  This  was  universally  con- 
strued to  mean,  *I'll  be  naething.*  The  true  meaning  I  had  in  view 
was  what  the  words  bore.  *I  will  be  something^'  and  the  clew  to  the 
riddle  was,  that  my  wit  was  tickled  at  school  by  the  rule  that  *  two 
negatives  make  an  affirmative,'  and  I  was  diverted  with  the  mysti- 
fication their  use  and  literal  truth  produced  in  this  instance.  In  no 
one  instance  did  mortal  man  or  woman  hear  me  say  seriously  {if 
ever)  *Tl\  be  naething.'  All  this  is  as  clear  to  me  as  of  yesterday's 
occurrence,  and  the  double  entendre  was  a  source  of  internal  chuck- 
ling to  me.  You  may  say.  Why,  then,  so  unwilling  to  go  to  Mr. 
John^^on's?  That  is  a  natural  question,  and  touches  upon  another 
feature  altogether.  I  was  a  dour  [stubborn]  boy,  when  not  taken  in 
the  right  way,  and  for  a  time  nothing  would  then  move  me.  Once 
committed,  I  resolved  not  to  yield,  and  hence  the  laughable  extrav- 
aganza which  ensued." 

At  the  age  of  fifteen,  Andrew  Combe  went  to  live  with  his  elder 
brother  George,  who,  in  1812,  began  priicticing  as  writer  to  the 
Signet.     This  was  an  advantage  to  Andrew,  in  point  of  health,  and 


132  BBIEP  BIOGRAPHIES. 

was  a  convenience  to  him  in  attending  his  place  of  business,  and 
also  the  medical  lectures  in  the  University.  In  his  letters  to  his 
brother,  written  in  alter  life,  Andrew  often  referred  with  regret  to 
the  neglect  of  ventilation,  ablution,  and  bathing,  in  his  father's 
family;  to  which  he  attributed  the  premature  deaths  of  the  greater 
number,  and  impaired  constitutions  of  the  few  who  survived. 
"Our  parents,"  he  said  in  one  letter,  •*  erred  from  sheer  ignorance; 
but  what  are  we  to  think  of  the  mechanical  and  tradesman-like 
views  of  a  medical  man  who  could  see  all  the  causes  of  disease  ex- 
isting, and  producing  these  results  year  after  year,  without  its  ever 
occurring  to  him  that  it  was  part  of  his  solemn  duty  to  warn  his 
employers,  and  try  to  remedy  the  evil?  All  parties  were  anxious 
to  cure  the  disease,  but  no  one  sought  to  remove  its  cause;  and  yet 
so  entirely  were  the  causes  within  the  control  of  reason  and  knowl- 
edge, that  my  conviction  has  long  been  complete,  that,  if  we  had 
been  properly  treated  from  infancy,  we  should,  even  with  the  con- 
stitutions we  possessed  at  birth,  have  survived  in  health  and  active 
usefulness  to  a  good  old  age,  unless  cut  off  by  some  acute  disease." 
But  nearly  all  medical  men  were  alike  empirical  in  those  days. 
They  merely  attacked  the  symptoms  which  presented  themselves; 
and  when  these  were  overcome,  their  task  was  accomplished.  That 
medical  men  are  now  so  careful  in  directing  their  measures  toward 
the  prevention  as  well  as  the  cure  of  disease,  we  have  to  thank  Dr. 
Combe,  Edwin  Chadwick,  and  other  popular  writers  and  laborers 
in  the  cause  of  public  health. 

At  the  early  age  of  nineteen,  Andrew  Combe  passed  at  Surgeons* 
Hall.  He  used  afterwards  to  say,  that  it  would  have  better  for  him 
had  he  been  then  only  commencing  his  studies.  Shortly  iifter,  Dr. 
Spurzheim,  the  phrenologist,  visited  Edinburgh,  and  attracted  many 
ardent  admirers,  of  whom  George  Combe,  then  a  young  man,  short- 
ly became  one.  Andrew,  like  most  of  the  medical  men  of  the  day, 
was  at  first  disposed  to  laugh  at  the  new  science;  but  before  many 
years  had  passed,  he  too  became  an  ardent  disciple  of  Dr.  Spurz- 
heim. He  afterwards  attributed  much  of  the  improvement  of  his 
mind  and  character  to  his  study  of  this  science,  and  to  the  practical 
application  of  its  principles  to  his  own  case.  In  1817  he  went  to  Paris, 
where  he  studied  under  Dupuytren,  Alibert,  Esquirol,  Richerand, 
and  other  celebrated  men.  He  also  cultivated  the  frendship  of  Dr. 
Spurzheim,  and  pursued  his  observations  and  studies  in  xjhrenology. 
From  Paris  he  proceeded  with  a  friend  on  a  walking  tour  through 
Switzerland  and  the  north  of  Italy.  Disregarding  the  laws  of  health, 
he  injured  his  delicate  constitution  by  exposure,  irregular  diet,  and 
over-fatigue;  and  on  his  return  to  Edinburgh,  shortly  after,  he  was 
seized  with  a  serious  illness,  the  beginning  of  long-continued  lung 
disease.  He  removed  for  a  season  to  the  south  of  England,  and 
then  proceeded  to  Italy,  wintering  at  Leghorn.  There  his  cough 
left  him,  and  he  regained  his  health  and  strength  so  far  as  to  be  t  n- 


I 


Bit.  ANDKEY/  COMBE,  183 


abled  to  practice  for  a  time  as  a  physician  among  the  English  in  that 
town  and  Pisa.  Beturning  to  Edinburgh  in  1823,  he  regularly  set- 
tled down  in  that  city  as  a  medical  practitioner. 

In  this  profession  he  was  very  Buccessfui.  His  quiet  manner, 
suavity,  and  kindness,  good  sense,  attention,  professional  abilities, 
and  gentlemanly  demeanor,  secured  him  many  friends;  and  he  won 
them  to  his  heart  by  his  truthful  candor,  and  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  sought  to  obtain  their  intelligent  co-operation  in  the  re- 
medial measures  which  he  thought  proper  to  employ.  He  deemed 
it  as  much  a  part  of  his  duty  to  instruct  his  patients  as  to  the  con- 
ditions which  regulate  the  healthy  action  of  the  bodily  organs,  as  to 
administer  drugs  to  them  for  the  purpose  of  curing  tiieir  immediate 
ailments.  But  he  found  great  obstacles  in  his  way,  in  consequence 
of  the  previous  ignorance  of  most  people — even  those  considered 
well  educated — as  to  the  simplest  laws  which  regulate  the  animal 
economy.  Hence  he  very  early  felt  the  necessity  of  improving  this 
department  of  elementary  instruction;  and  with  that  view  he  set 
about  composing  his  works  on  popular  physiology.  His  first  appear- 
jince  as  an  author  was  in  the  pages  of  the  Phrenological  Journal, — 
an  excellent  periodical  now  defunct.  To  the  subject  of  phrenology 
he  devoted  considerable  attention,  and  soon  became  known  as  one 
of  its  ablest  defenders.  Some  of  his  friends  told  him  that  he  would 
injure  his  professional  standing  and  connection  by  the  prominency 
of  his  advocacy  of  the  new  views;  but  he  persevered,  nevertheless, 
♦*  firmly  trusting  in  the  sustaining  power  of  truth;"  and  he  after- 
wards found  that,  instead  of  bein^  professioiialiy  injured,  ho  was 
greatly  benefited  by  the  labor  which  he  bestowed  upon  the  study 
and  exposition  of  the  science.  To  phrenology  he  attributed,  in  a 
great  measure,  the  direction  of  his  attention  to  the  subject  of  hygi- 
enic principles  ;  and  after  his  mind  had  been  fairly  opened  to  the 
importance  of  those  principles,  he  not  only  reduced  them  to  practice 
in  his  own  personal  habits,  but  labored  to  disseminate  a  knowledge 
of  them  among  the  public  generally. 

In  the  midst  of  the  arduous  duties  of  his  ^profession.  Dr.  Combe 
was  more  than  once  under  the  necessity  of  leaving  home  and  going 
abroad  for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  Disease  had  fixed  upon  his 
lungs,  and  he  felt  that  his  life  could  only  be  preserved  by  removing 
to  a  milder  air.  He  traveled  to  Paris,  to  Orleans,  to  Nantes,  to 
Lyons,  to  Naples,  to  Bome,  returning  rather  improved,  but  with 
his  lungs  full  of  tubercles.  For  many  years  his  life  hung  as  by  a 
thread,  and  it  was  by  his  careful  observance  of  the  laws  of  health 
that  he  was  enabled  to  survive.  In  his  work  on  **  The  Principles 
of  Physiology,"  speaking  of  the  advantages  experienced  in  his  own 
person  of  paying  implicit  obedience  to  the  physiological  la\vs,  he 
says:  "  Had  he  not  been  fully  aware  of  the  gravity  of  his  own  situa- 
tion, and  from  previous  knowledge  of  the  admirable  adaptation  of 
the  physiological  laws  to  carry  on  the  machinery  of  life,  disposed  to 


m  BRIEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

place  implicit  reliance  on  the  snperior  advantages  of  fulfilling 
them,  as  the  direct  dictates  of  Divine  Wisdom,  he  would  never  have 
been  able  to  persevere  in  the  course  chalked  out  for  him,  with  that 
ready  and  long-enduring  regularity  and  cheerfulness  which  have 
contributed  so  much  to  their  successful  fulfillment  and  results.  And, 
therefore,  he  feels  himself  entitled  to  call  upon  those  who,  impatient 
at  the  slowness  of  their  progress,  are  apt  after  a  time  to  disregard 
all  restrictions,  to  take  a  sounder  view  of  their  true  position,  to  make 
themselves  acquainted  with  the  real  dictates  of  the  organic  laws; 
and  having  done  so,  to  yield  them  full,  implicit,  and  persevering 
obedience,  in  the  certain  assurance  that  they  will  reap  their  reward 
in  renewed  health,  if  recovery  be  still  possible;  and  if  not,  that  they 
will  thereby  obtain  more  peace  of  mind  ^nd  bodily  ease  than  by 
any  other  means  which  they  can  use.'*  • 

Dr.  Combo's  first  published  book  was  on  "  Phrenology  applied  to 
the  Treatment  of  Insanity."  It  was  given  to  the  world  in  1831,  and 
proved  very  successful,  being  soon  out  of  print.  His  second  book 
was  on  "The  Principles  of  Physiology,'*  some  chapters  of  which 
were  first  published  in  the  Phrenological  Journal.  This  book  was 
published  in  1834.  Among  the  booksellers  it  was  regarded  with 
aversion.  It  was  one  of  the  successful  books  which  booksellers 
sometimes  reject.  Tho  first  edition,  of  750  copies,  and  a  second 
edition,  of  1,000  copies,  both  printed  at  the  author's  expense,  were 
sold  otf ;  when  Dr.  Combe  offered  to  dispose  of  the  copyright  to 
John  Murray,  without  naming  terms.  Mr.  Murray,  and  all  the 
other  London  publishers  who  were  applied  to,  declined  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  purchase  of  the  copyright;  and  the  author 
W^mt  on  piiblishing  the  book  at  his  own  expense.  We  need  scarcely 
say  that  the  book  had  a  great  run:  about  30,000  copies  were  sold  in 
England,  besides  numerous  editions  in  the  United  States. 

Although  Dr.  Combe  was  enabled  at  intervals  to  resume  his  prac- 
tice in  Edinburgh,  he  found  it  necessary  to  leave  it  from  time  to 
time  for  the  benefits  of  a  Continental  residence;  until,  in  183(3,  he 
was  induced  to  accept  the  appointment  of  physician  to  the  King  of 
the  Belgians,  believing  that  a  residence  at  Brussels  might  possibly 
suit  his  constitution.  But  his  health  again  gave  way  on  reaching 
Brussels,  and  he  was  shortly  under  the  necessity  of  giving  up  the 
appointment, — preservincj,  however,  the  honorary  office  of  consult- 
ing physician  to  the  Belgian  Court.  During  the  leisure  which  the 
cessation  from  professional  pursuits  afibrded  him,  he  prepared  his 
next  work,  on  '-The  Physiology  of  Digestion,"  another  highly  sue-  ' 
cessful  book.  And  in  1810  appeared  his  last  work,  on  *'The 
Physiological  and  Moral  Management  of  Infancy."  All  these  books 
have  had  a  large  circulation  in  England  and  in  America,  besides 
having  been  translated  and  circulated  largely  in  Continental  coun- 
tries. 

In  1841  Dr.  Combe  was  agaia  attacked  with  hsemoptysis,  ordis- 


r 


DB.    ANDREW  COMBE,  185 


charge  of  blood  from  the  lungs,  and  fell  into  a  state  of  gradual  and 
Bteady  decline.  As  he  himself  said,  *'  I  believe  I  am  going  slowly  and 
pjently  down  hilV*  He  continued,  however,  to  live  for  several  years. 
In  1842  and  1843,  he  paid  two  visits  to  Madeira,  and  spent* some 
time  in  Italy ;  and  in  the  two  following  years  he  was  enabled  to  travel 
about,  a  pallid  invalid,  taking  a  deep  interest  meanwhile  in  all  use- 
ful public  and  social  movements.  His  judgment  seemed  to  grow 
stronger,  and  Ids  insight  into  men  and  things  clearer,  as  his  bodily 
powers  decayed.  On  all  topics  connected  with  education,  as  his 
correspondence  shows,  he  took  an  especially  lively  interest.  In 
1847  he  made  a  voyage  to  New  York,  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  visi- 
ting his  brother  William,  who  had  long  been  settled  in  the  States; 
bub  the  heat  of  the  climate  proved  too  trying  for  his  enfeebled  con- 
stitution, and  he  almost  immediately  took  ship  again  for  England. 
The  last  literary  labor  in  which  he  occupied  himself  was  thorough- 
ly characteristic  of  the  man.  V/hilein  the  States,  he  had  b*e:?n  sick- 
ened by  the  accounts  of  the  ravages  which  the  ship-fever  had  made 
among  the  poor  Irish  of  emigrants,  and  he  determined  to  bringthe 
whole^ubject  before  the  public  in  an  article  in  the  Times.  Writing 
to  a  corn  merchant  in  Liverpool,  on  his  return  home,  for  information 
as  to  the  regulations  of  emigrant  ships,  he  said  :^  "I  have  not  yet 
regained  either  my  ordinary  health  or  power  of  thinking,  and,  con- 
sequently, find  "writing  rather  heavy  work;  but  my  spirit  is  moved 
by  the  horrible  details  from  Quebec  and  New  York,  and  I  cannot  rest 
iciihoid  domg  something  in  the  matter.'*  The  letter  in  which  this  pass- 
age occurred  was  the  last  that  Dr.  Combe  wrote.  His  article  had 
meanwhile  been  hastily  prepared,  and  it  appeared  in  the  Times  of 
the  17th  of  September,  1847,  occupying  nearly  three  columns  of  that 
paper.  He  was  interrupted,  even  while  he  was  writing  it,  by  a 
severe  attack  of  the  diarrhea,  from  which  he  died,  after  a  few  days' 
illness,  on  the  9th  of  August,  1847.  His  dying  hours  were  peaceful, 
and  the  last  words  he  uttered,  when  he  could  scarcely  articulate, 
were,  **  Happy,  happy  !" 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  the  life  of  an  eminently  useful  man,  who, 
without  the  aid  of  any  brilliant  qualities,  and  merely  by  the  exer- 
cise of  industry,  good  sense,  and  well-cultivated  moral  feelings,  was 
enabled  to  effect  alargeamonnt  of  good  during  his  lifetime,  and  bene- 
ficially to  influence  the  condition  of  mankind,  it  may  be  for  genera- 
tionsto  come. 


ROBERT    NICOLL. 


THE  name  of  Robert  Nicoll  will  always  take  high  rank  among 
the  poets  of  Scotland.  He  was  one  of  the  many  illustrious 
Scotchmen  who  have  risen  up  to  adorn  the  lot  of  toil,  and  re- 
flect honor  on  the  class  from  which  they  have  sprung,— the  labori- 
ous and  hard-working  peasantry  of  their  laud.  NicoU,  like  Burns, 
was  a  man  of  whom  those  who  live  in  the  poor  men's  huts  may  well 
be"  proud.  They  declare,  from  day  to  day,  that  intellect  is  of  no 
class,  but  that  even  in  abodes  of  the  deepest  poverty  there  are  warm 
hearts  and  noble  minds,  wanting  but  the  opportunity  and  the  cir- 
cumstances to  enable  them  to  take  their  place  as  honorable  and 
zealous  laborers  in  the  work  of  human  improvement  and  Christian 
progress. 

The  life  of  Robert  Nicoll  was  not  one  of  much  variety  of  incident. 
It  was,  alas!  brought  to  an  early  close;  for  he  died  almost  ere  ho 
had  reached  manhood.  But  in  his  short  allotted  span,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say,  that  he  lived  more  than  most  men  have  done  who- 
reach  their  three-score-y ears-and-ten.  He  was  born^of  hard-working j 
God-fearing  parents,  in  the  year  1814,  at  the  little  Village  of  TuUie- 
belton,  situated  near  the  foot  of  the  Grampian  Hills,  in  Perthshire. 
At  an  early  period  of  his  life,  his  father  had  rented  the  small  farm 
of  Ordie-braes;  but  having  been  unsuccessful  in  his  farming,  and 
falling  behind  with  his  rent,  his  home  was  broken  up  by  the  laird, 
the  farm-stock  was  sold  off  by  public  roup  ;  and  the  poor  man  was 
reduced  to  the  rank  of  a  common  day-laborer. 

Robert  was  the  second  of  a  family  of  seven  children,  six  sons  and 
one  daughter,  the  ** sister  Margaret"  of  whem  the  poet  afterward 
spoke  and  wrote  so  affectionately.  Out  of  the  bare  weekly  income  of 
a  day-laborer,  there  was  not,  as  might  be  inferred,  much  to  spare 
for  schooling.  But  the  mother  was  an  intelligent,  active  woman, 
and  assiduously  devoted  herself  to  the  culture  of  her  children. 
She  taught  them  to  read,  and  gave  them  daily  lessons  in  the  Assem- 
bly's Catechism;  so  that  before  being  sent  to  school,  which  they  all 
were  in  due  course,  this  good  and  prudent  mother  had  laid  the 
foundations  in   them  of  a  sound  moral  and  religious   education, 

166 


ROBERT  NICOLL.  1S7 

"My  mother,**  says  Nicoll,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "in  her  early 
y.ars,  was  an  ardent  book-woman.  When  she  became  poor,  her 
time  was  too  precious  to  admit  of  its  being  spent  in  reading,  and  I 
generally  read  to  her  while  she  was  working;  for  she  took  care  that 
the  children  should  not  want  education." 

Robert's  subsequent  instruction  at  school  included  the  common 
branches  of  reading,  writing,  and  accounts;  the  remainder  of  his 
education  was  his  own  work.  He  became  a  voracious  reader,  L\y-. 
ing  half  the  parish  under  contribution  for  books.  A  circulating  li- 
brary was  got  up  in  the  neighboring  village  of  Auchtergaven ;  which 
ti.e  lad  managed  to  connect  himself  with,  and  his  mind  became 
stored  apace. 

Robert,  like  the  rest  of  the  children,  when  he  became  big  enough 
and  old  enough,  was  sent  out  to  field-work,  to  contribute  by  the 
aid  of  his  slender  gains  towards  the  common  store.  At  seven  he  was 
sent  to  the  herding  of  cattle,  an  occupation,  by  the  way,  in  which 
many  distinguished  Scotchmen — Burns,  James  Ferguson,  Mungo 
Park,  Dr.  Murray  (the  Orientalist),  and  James  Hogg— spent  their 
early  years.    In  winter  Nicoll  attended  the  school  with  his  "fee." 
When  occupied  in  herding,  the  boy  had  always  a  book  for  his 
companion  ;  and  he  read  going  to  his  work  and  returning  from 
it.     While  engaged  in  this  humble  vocation  he  read  most  of  the 
Waverley  novels.     At  a  future  period  of  his  life,  he  says,  **  I  can  yet 
look  back  with  no  common  feelings  on  the  wood  in  which,  while  herd- 
ing, I  read  Kenilworth."    Probably  the  perusal  of  that  beautiful  fic- 
tion never  gave  a  purer  pleasure,  even  in  the  stately  halls  of  rank  and 
fashion,  than  it  gave  the  poor  herd-boy  in  the  wood  at  TuUiebelton. 
When  twelve  years  of  ago,  Robert  was  taken  from  the  herding,  and 
went  to  work  in  the  garden  of  a  neighboring  proprietor.     Shortly 
after,  when  about  thirteen,  he  began  to  scribble  his  thoughts,  and 
to  string  rhymes  together.    About  this  time  also,  as  one  of  his  inti- 
mate friends  has  told  us,  he  passed  through  a  strange  phasis  of  be- 
ing.   He  was  in  the  practice  of  relating  to  his  companions  the  most 
wonderful  and  incredible  stories  as  facts, — stories  that  matched  the 
wonders  of  the  Arabian  Tales, — and  evidencing  the  inordinate  as- 
cendency at  that  time  of  his  imagination  over  the  other  faculties  of 
mind.     The  tales  and  novel  literature,  which,  in  common  with  ail 
other  kinds  of  books,  he  devoured  with  avidity,  probably  tended  to 
the  development  of  this  disease  (for  such  it  really  seemed  to  be)  in 
his  young  and  excitable  nature.     As  for  the  verses  which  he  then 
wrote,  they  were  not  at  all  such  as  satisfied  himself;  for,  despairing 
of  ever  being  able  to  write  the  English  language  correctly,  he  gath- 
ered all  his  papers  together  and  made  a  bonfire  of  them,  resolving 
to  write  no  more  **  poetry"  for  the  present.     He  became,  however, 
the  local  correspondent  of  a  provincial  newspaper  circulating  in 
the  district,  furnishing  it  with  weekly  paragraphs  and  scraps  of 
news,  on  the  state  of  the  weather,  crops,  etc.    His  return  for  this 


1«S  BRIEF   BIOGRAPHIES. 

service  was  an  occasional  copy  of  the  paper,  and  the  consequence 
attendant  on  being  the  ** correspondent*' of  the  village.  But  an- 
other person  was  atterwards  found  more  to  the  liking  of  the  editor 
of  the  pa^Der,  and  Robert,  to  his  chagrin,  lost  his  prohtiess  post. 

Nicoll's  next  change  was  an  important  one  to  him.  He  left  his 
native  hamlet  and  went  into  the  world  of  active  life.  At  the  age  ot 
seventeen  he  was  bound  apprentice  to  a  grocer  and  wine-mercnant 
in  Perth.  There  he  came  in  contact  with  business,  and  activity, 
and  opinion.  The  time  was  stirring  with  agitation.  The  Reform 
movement  had  passedover  the  face  of  the  country  like  a  tornado, 
raising  millions  of  minds  to  action.  The  exciting  eSfects  of  the  agi- 
tation on  the  intellects  and  8ym[)athies  of  the  youth  of  that  day  are 
still  remembered;  and  few  there  were  who  did  not  feel  more  or  less 
influenced  by  them.  The  excitable  mind  of  Nic  jU  was  one  of  the 
first  to  be  influenced;  he  burned  to  distinguish  himself  as  a  warrior 
on  the  people's  side;  he  had  longings  inhnite  after  popular  enlarge- 
ment, enfranchisement,  and  happiness.  His  thoughts  shortly  found 
vent  in  verse,  and  ho  became  a  poet.  He  joined  a  debating-society, 
and  made  speeches.  Every  spare  moment  of  his  time  was  devoted 
to  self-improvement, — to  the  study  of  grammar,  to  the  reading  of 
works  on  political  economy,  and  to  politics  in  all  Iheir  forms.  In 
the  course  of  one  summer,  he  several  times  read  through  with  atten- 
tion Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations,  not  improbably  with  an  eye  to  some 
future  employment  on  the  newspaper  press.  He  also  read  Milton, 
Locke,  andBentham,  and  devoured  with  avidity  all  other  books  that 
he  could  lay  hands  on.  The  debating-society  with  which  he  was 
connected4)roposed  to  start  a  periodical,  and  NicoU  undertook  to. 
write  a  tale  for  the  first  number.  The  periodical  did  not  appear, 
and  the  tale  was  sent  to  Johnstone's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  where  it 
was  published  under  the  title  of  **  Jessie  Ogilvy,"to  the  no  small 
joy  of  the  writer.  It  decided  Nicoll's  vocation,— it  determined  him 
to  be  an  author.  He  proclaimed  his  Radicalism, — his  resolution  to 
"stand  by  his  order,"that  of  ••themany.  His  letters  to  his  rela- 
tives, about  this  time,  are  lull  of  political  allusions.  He  was  work- 
ing very  hard,  too,—  attending  in  his  mistress's  shop,  from  seven 
in  the  morning  till  nine  at  night,  and*  afterwards  sitting  up  to 
read  and  write  ;  rising  early  in  the  morning,  and  going  forth  to  the 
North  Inch  by  five  o'clock,  to  write  or  to  reiip  until  the  hour  of 
shop-opening.  At  the  same  time  he  was  living  on  the  poorest  possible 
diet, — literally  on  bread  and  cheese,  and  water, — that  he  might  de- 
vote every  possible  farthing  of  his  small  gains  to  the  purposes  of 
mental  improvement. 

Few  constitutions  can  stand  such  intense  labor  and  privation 
with  impunity;  and  there  is  little  doubt  but  Nicoll  was  even  then 
undermining  his  health,  and  sowing  the  seeds  of  the  malady  which 
in  BO  short  a  time  after  was  to  bring  him  to  his  grave.  But  he  was 
eager  to  distinguish  himself  in  the  field  of  letters,  though  but  a  poor 


liOBERT  NICOLL.  189 

stop-lad;  and,  more,  than  all,  he  was  ambitions  to  be  independent, 
and  have  the  means  of  aiding  his  mother  in  her  humble  exertions 
for  a  living;  never  losing  sight  of  the  comfort  and  welftire  of  that 
first  and  fastest  of  his  friends.  At  length,  however;  his  health  be- 
came seriously  impaired,  so  much  so,  that  his  Perth  apprenticeship 
was  abruptly  brought  to  a  close,  and  he  was  sent  home  bj  his  mis- 
tress to  be  nursed  by  his  mother  at  Ordie  Braes, — not,  however,  be- 
fore he  had  contributed  another  Badical  story,  entitled  "The  Zin- 
garo,"  a  poem  on  **Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray,"  and  an  article  on 
"The  Life  and  times  of  John  Milton,  '  to  Johnstone's  Edinbur^ji 
Magazine,  xin  old  friend  and  schoolfellow,  who  saw  him  in  the 
course  of  his  visit  to  his  mother's  house,  thus  speaks  of-him  at  tho 
time:  "iiobert's  city  life  had  not  spoiled  him.  His  acquaintanca 
with  men  and  books  had  improved  his  mind  without  chilling  hi^^ 
heart.  At  this  time  he  was  full  of  joy  and  hope.  A  bright  literary 
life  stretched  before  him.  His  conversation  was  gay  and  sparkling, 
and  rushed  forth  like  a  stream  that  flows  through  flowery  summer 
vales." 

His  health  soon  became  re-established,  and  he  then  paid  a  visit  to 
Edinburgh,  during  the  period  of  the  Grey  Festival,  -and  there  met 
his  kind  friend  Mrs.  Johnstone,  William  Tuit,  Robert  Chambers, 
Bobert  GilfiUan,  and  others  known  in  the  literary  world,  by  ail  of 
whom  he  was  treated  with  kindness  and  hospitality.  His  search  f  >r 
literary  employment,  however,  which  was  tlie  main  cause  of  his 
visit  to  Edinburgh,  was  in  vain,  and  he  returned  home  disappointed, 
though  not  hopeless. 

He  was  about  twenty  when  he  went  to  Dundee,  there  to  start  a 
email  circulating  library.  The  project  was  not  very  successful;  but 
while  he  kept  it  going,  he  worked  harder  than  ever  at  literary  im- 
provement. He  now  wrote  his  Lyrics  and  Poems,  which,  on  their 
publication,  were  extremely  well  received  by  the  press.  He  also 
wrote  for  the  liberal  newspapers  of  the  town,  delivered  lectures, 
made  speeches,  and  extended  his  knowledge  of  men  and  society. 
In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  written  in  February,  1836,  he  says:  **No 
wonder  I  am  busy.  -I  am  at  this  moment  writing  poetrj'';  I  have  al- 
most half  a  volume  of  a  novel  written;  I  have  to  attend  the  meetings 
of  the  Kinloch  Monument  Committe;  attend  my  shop;  write  some 
half-dozen  articles  a  week  for  the  Advertiser;  and,  to  crown  all,  I 
have  fallen  in  love."  At  last,  however,  finding  the  library  to  be  a 
losing  concern,  he  made  it  entirely  over  to  the  partner  who  had  en- 
joined him,  and  quitted  Dundee,  with  the  intention  of  seeking  out 
some  literary  employment  by  which  he  might  live. 

The  Dundee  speculation  had  involved  Nicoll,  and  through  him 
his  mother,  in  debt,  though  to  only  a  small  amount.  This  debt 
weighed  heavily  on  his  mind,  and  he  thus  opened  his  heart  in  a  highly 
characteristic  letter  to  his  parent  about  it;  **  This  money  of  M's  [a 
friend  who  had  lent  him  a  few  pounds  to  commence  business  with] 


lt)0  BRIEF  BIOGRAPmES. 

haugs  like  a  millstone  about  my  neck.  If  I  had  it  paid,  I  would 
never  borrow  again  from  mortal  man.  But  do  not  mistake  me, 
mother;  I  am  not  one  of  those  men  who  faint  and  falter  in  the  great 
battle  of  life.  God  has  given  me  too  strong  a  heart  for  that.  I 
look  upon  earth  as  a  place  where  every  man  is  set  to  struggle,  and 
to  work,  that  he  may  be  made  humble  and  pure-hearted,  and  fit  for 
ttiat  better  land  for  which  earth  is  a  preparation, — to  which  earth  is 
the  gate.  Cowardly  is  that  man  who  bows  before  the  storm  of  life, 
— who  runs  not  the  needful  race  manfull}^  and  with  a  cheerful  heart. 
If  men  would  but  consider  how  little  of  real  evil  there  is  in  all  the 
ills  of  which  they  are  so  much  afraid, — poverty  included, — there 
would  be  more  virtue  and  happiness,  and  less  world  and  mammon 
worship  on  earth  than  there  is.  I  think,  mother,  that  to  me  Las  been 
given  talent;  and  if  so,  that  talent  was  given  to  make  it  useful  to 
man.  To  man  it  cannot  be  made  a  source  of  happiness  unless  it  be 
cultivated;  and  cultivated  it  cannot  be  unless,  I  think,  little  [here 
some  words  are  obliterated];  and  much  and  well  of  purifying  and 
enlightening  the  soul.    This  is  my  philosophy ;  and  its  motto  is, 

Despair,  thy  name  Is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

Half  the  unhappiness  of  life  springs  from  looking  back  to  'griefs 
which  are  past,  and  forward  with  fear  to  the  future.  That  is  not  my 
way.  I  am  determined  never  to  bend  to  the  storm  that  is  coming, 
and  never  to  look  back  on  it  after  it  has  passed.  Fear  not  for  me, 
dear  mother.;  for  I  feel  myself  daily  growing  firmer,  and  more  hope- 
ful in  spirit.  'I'he  more  I  think  and  reflect,— and  thinking,  instead 
of  reading  is  now  my  occupation, — I  feel  that,  whether  I  be  growing 
richer  or  not,  I  am  growing  a  wiser  man,  which  is  far  better.  Pain, 
poverty,  and  all  the  other  wild  beasts  of  life  which  so  affright  others, 
I  am  BO  bold  as  to  think  I  could  look  in  the  face  without  shrinking, 
without  losing  respect  for  myself,  faith  in  man's  high  destinies,  and 
trust  in  God.  There  is  a  point  which  it  costs  much  mental  toil  and 
struggling  to  gain,  but  which,  when  once  gained,  a  man  can  look 
down  from,  as  a  traveler  from  a  lofty  mountain,  on  storms  raging 
below,  while  he  is  walking  in  sunshine.  That  I  have  yet  gained 
this  point  in  life,  I  will  not  say,  but  I  feel  myself  daily  nearer  it." 

About  the  end  of  the  year  1836,  NicoU  succeeded,  through  the 
kind  assistance  of  Mr.  Tait,  of  Edinburgh,  in  obtaining  an  appoint- 
ment as  editor  of  an  English  newspaper,  the  Leeds  Times.  This 
was  the  kind  of  occupation  for  which  he  had  longed;  and  he  entered 
upon  the  arduous  labors  of  his  office  with  great  spirit.  During  his 
year  and  a  half  of  editorship  his  mind  seemed  to  be  on  fire;  and  on 
the  occasion  of  a  Parliamentary  contest  in  the  town  in  which  the 
paper  was  published,  he  wrote  in  a  style  which  to  some  seemed 
borde'ring  on  frenzy.     He  neither  gave  nor  took  quarter*     The  man 


KOBEET  NICOLL.  191 

^ho  went  not  so  far  aa  he  did  in  political  opinion  was  regarded  by 
him  as  an  enemy,  and  denounced  accordingly.  He  dealt  about  his 
blows  with  almost  savage  violence.  This  novel  and  daring  style, 
however,  attracted  attention  to  the  paper,  and  its  circulation  rapidly 
increased,  sometimes  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  hundred  a  week. 
One  can  scarcely  believe  that  the  tender-hearted  poet  and  the  fierce 
political  partisan  were  one  and  the  same  person,  or  that  he  who  had 
so  touchingly  written 

I  dare  not  scorn  the  meanest  thing 
That  on  the  earth  doth  crawl 

should  have  held  up  his  political  opponents,  in  the  words  of  another 
poet, 

To  grinning"  scorn  a  sacrifice. 

And  endless  Infamy. 

But  such  inconsistencies  are,  we  believe,  reconcilable  in  the  men- 
tal histories  of  ardent  and  impetuous  men.  Doubtless,  had  NicoU 
lived,  we  should  have  found  his  sympathies  becoming  more  enlarged, 
and  embracing  other  classes  besides  those  of  only  one  form  of  polit- 
ical creed.  One  of  his  friends  once  asked  him  why,  like  Elliott,  he 
did  not  write  political  poetry.  His  reply  was  ho  could  not :  when 
writing  politics,  he  could  be  as  wildsiS  he  chose;  he  felt  a  vehement 
desire,  a  feeling  amounting  almost  to  a  wish,  for  vengeance  upon  the 
oppressor;  but  when  he  turned  to  poetry,  a  softening  influence  came 
over  him,  and  he  could  be  bitter  no  longer. 

His  literary  labors  while  in  Leeds  were  enormous.  He  was  not 
satisfied  with  writing  from  four  to  five  columns  weekly  for  the 
paper;  but  he  was  engaged  at  the  same  time  in  writing  a  long  poem, 
a  novel,  and  in  furnishing  leading  articles  for  a  new  Sheffield  news- 
paper. In  the  midst  of  this  tremendous  labor,  he  found  time  to  go 
down  to  Dundee  to  get  married  to  the  young  woman  with  whom  he 
had  fallen  in  love.  The  comfort  of  his  home  was  thus  increased, 
though  his  labors  continued  as  before.  They  soon  told  upon  his 
health.  The  clear  and  ruddy  complexion  of  the  youth  grew  pallid; 
the  erect,  manly  gait  became  stooping;  the  firm  step  faltered;  the 
lustrous  eye  dimmed;  and  health  gave  place  to  debility:  the  worm 
of  disease  was  already  at  his  heart  and  gnawing  away  his  vitals.  His 
cough,  which  had  never  entirely  left  him  since  his  illness,  brought 
on  by  self-imposed  privation  and  study  while  at  Perth,  again  ap- 
peared in  an  ag^avated  form;  his  breath  grew  short  and  thick;  his 
cheeks  became  shrunken ;  and  the  hectic  flush  which  rarely  deceives, 
soon  made  its  appearance.  He  appeared  as  if  suddenly  to  grow  old ; 
his  shoulders  became  contracted;  he  appeared  to  wither  up,  and  the 
sap  of  life  to  shrink  from  his  veins.  Need  we  detail  the  melancholy 
progress  of  a  disease  which  is,  in  this  country,  the  annual  fate  of 
thousands? 


192  BiUEF  BIOGPtAPBIES. 

As  NicoU's  illness  increased,  he  expressed  an  anxious  desire  to  see 
Ills  mother,  and  she  was  informed  of  it  accordingly.  She  was  very 
poor,  and  little  able  to  afford  an  expensive  journey  to  Yorkshire  by 
coach;  nevertheless  she  contrived  to  pay  the  visit  to  her  son.  After- 
wards, when  a  friend  inquired  how  she  had  been  able  to  incur  the 
expense,  as  poor  Robert  was  in  no  condition  to  assist  her  even  to  the 
extent  of  the  coach  fare,  her  simple  but  noble  reply  was,  **  Indeed, 

Mr.  ,  I  shore  for  the  siller."    The  true  woman,  worthy  mother 

3f  so  worthy  a  son,  earned  as  a  reaper  the  means  of  honestly  and  in- 
dependently fulfilling  her  boy's  dying  wish,  and  the  ardent  desire 
of  her  own  loving  heart.  So  soon  as  she  set  eyes  on  him  on  her 
arrival  at  Leeds,  she  felt  at  once  that  his  days  were  numbered. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if,  while  the  body  of  the  poet  decayed,  his 
mind  grew  more  active  and  excitable,  and  tliat,  as  the  physical 
powers  become  more  weakened,  his  sense  of  sympathy  became 
more  keen.  .When  he  engaged  in  conversation  upon  a  subject  which 
he  loved, — upon  human  progress,  the  amelioration  of  the  lot  of  the 
poor,  the  emancipation  of  mind, — he  seemed  as  one  inspired. 
Usually  quiet  and  reserved,  he  would  on  such  occasions  work 
himself  into  a  state  of  the  greatest  excitement.  His  breast  heaved, 
his  whole  frame  was  agitated,  and  while  bespoke,  his  large  lustrous 
eyes  beamed  with  unwonted  fire.  His  wife  feared  such  outbursts, 
which  were  followed  by  sleepless  nights  and  the  aggravation  of  his 
complaint. 

Throughout  the  whole  progress  of  his  disease,  down  to  the  time 
when  he  left  Leeds.  NicoU  did  not  fail  to  produce  his  usual  weekly 
quota  of  literary  labor.  They  little  know,  who  have  not  learned 
from  experience,  what  pains  and  anxieties,  what  sorrows  and  cares, 
lie  hid  under  the  columns  of  a  daily  or  weekly  newspaper.  No 
galley-slave  at  the  oar  tugs  harder  for  life  than  the  man  who  writes 
in  newspapers  for  the  indiKpensable  of  daily  bread.  The  press  is 
ever  at  his  heels,  crying,  *•  Give,  give  !  "  and  well  or  ill,  gay  or  sad, 
the  editor  must  supply  the  usual  complement  of  ** leading  article.'* 
The  last  articles  poor  Nicoll  wrote  for  the  paper  were  prepared 
whilst  he  sat  up  in  bed,  propped  about  by  pillows.  A  friend  en- 
tered justas  he  had  finished  them,  andfoundhim  in  a  state  of  high 
excitement;  the  veins  on  his  forehead  were  turgid  and  his  eyes 
bloodshot;  his  whole  frame  quivered,  and  the  perspiration  streamed 
from  him.  He  had  produced  a  pile  of  blotted  and  blurred  manu- 
script, written  in  his  usual  energetic  manner.  It  was  immediately 
after  sent  to  press.  These  were  the  last  leaders  he  wrote.  They 
were  shortly  after  followed  by  a  short  address  to  the  readers  of 
the  paper,  in  which  he  took  a  short  but  affectionate  farewell  of 
them,  stating  that  he  went  •*  to  try  the  effect  of  his  native  air,  as  a 
last  chance  for  life." 

AIniost  at  the  moment  of  his  departure  from  Leeds,  an  incident 
occurred  which  must  have  been  exceedingly  aff^^eiing  to  Nicoll,  as 


EGBERT  NICOLL.  193 

it  was  to  those  who  witnessed  it.  Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  **  Corn-Law 
Rhymer,"  who  entertained  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  the  young 
poet,  had  gone  over  from  Sheffield  to  deliver  a  short  course  of  tec- 
ttires  to  the  Leeds  Literary  institution,  and  promised  himself  the 
pleasure  of  a  kindly  interview  with  Robert  NicoU.  On  inquiring 
about  him,  after  the  delivery  of  his  first  lecture,  ho  was  distressed 
to  learn  the  Bad  state  to  which  he  was  reduced.  **No  words,"  saj'-s 
Elliott,  in  his  letter  to  the  writer  of  this  memoir,  "can  express  the 
pain  I  felt  when  informed,  on  my  return  to  my  inn,  that  he  was  dy- 
ing, and  that  if  I  would  see  him  I  must  reach  his  dwelling  before 
eight  o'clock  next  morning,  at  which  hour  he  would  depart  by  rail- 
way for  Edinburgh,  in  the  hope  that  his  native  air  might  restore 
him.  I  was  five  minutes  too  late  to  see  him  at  his  house,  but  I 
followed  him  to  the  station,  where  about  a  minute  before  the  train 
started  he  was  pointed  out  to  me  in  one  of  the  carriages,  seated,  I 
believe,  between  his  wife  and  his  mother.  I  stood  on  the  step  of 
the  carriage  and  told  him  my  name.  He  gasped — they  all  three 
wept;  but  I  heard  not  his  voice." 

The  invalid  reached  Newhaven,  near  Leith,  sick,  exhausted,  dis- 
tressed, and  dying.  Ho  was  received  under  the  hospitable  roof  of 
Mrs.  Johnstone,  his  early  friend,  who  tended  him  as  if  he  had  been 
her  ov/n  child.  Other  friends  gathered  around  him,  and  contrib- 
uted to  smooth  his  dying  couch.  It  was  not  the  least  of  NicoU's 
distresses,  that  towards  his  latter  end  he  was  tort,ured  by  the  hor- 
rors of  destitution;  not  so  much  for  himself  as  for  those  who  were 
dependent  on  him  for  their  daily  bread.  A  generous  gift  of  £50  was 
forwarded  by  Sir  William  Molesworth,  but  Nicoil  did  not  live  to 
enjoy  the  bounty;  in  a  few  days  after,  he  breathed  his  last  in  the 
arms  of  his  wife. 

The  remains  of  Robert  Nicoil  rest  in  a  narrow  spot  in  Newhaven 
churchyard.  No  stone  marks  his  resting-place ;  only  a  small  green 
mound  that  has  been  watered  by  the  tears  of  the  loved  he  has  left 
behind  him.  On  that  spot  the  eye  of  God  dwells  ;  and  around 
the  precincts  of  the  poet's  grave,  the  memories  of  friends  still  hover 
with  a  fond  and  melancholy  regret. 

Robert  Nicoil  was  no  ordinary  man;  Ebenezer  Elliott  has  said  of 
him,  *'  Burns  at  hi^i  age  had  done  nothing  like  him."  His  poetry  is 
the  very  soul  of  pathos,  tenderness,  and  sublimity.  We  might  al- 
most style  him  the  Scottish  Keats;  though  he  was  much  more  real 
and  lifelike,  and  more  definite  in  his  aims  and  purposes,  than  Eeats 
was.  There  is  a  truthful  earnestness  in  the  poetry  of  Nicoil,  which 
CO  »ies  home  to  the  universal  heart.  Especially  does  he  give  utter- 
ance to  that  deep  poetry  which  lives  in  the  heart,  and  murmurs  in 
the  lot  of  the  poor  man.  He  knew  and  felt  it  all,  and  found  for  it 
a  voice  in  his  exquisite  Uvrics.  These  have  truth  written  on  their 
very  front;— as  Nicoil  said  truly  to  a  friend,  "I  have  written  my 
heart  in  my  poems;  and  rude,  unfinished,  and  hasty  as  they  are,  it 
can  be  read  there." 

BIOGBAPH1E3  7 


194  BHIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

"We  ape  lowly,*'  "The  Ha'  Bible,"  "The  Hero,"  "  The  Bursting 
of  the  Chain,"  "I  dare  not  scorn,"  and  numerous  other  pieces  which 
might  be  named,  are  inferior  to  few  things  of  their  kind  in  the 
English  language.  "The  Ha*  Bible  "  is  perhaps  not  unworthy  to 
take  rank  with  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  of  Robert  Burns. 
Itis  as  follows : 

THE  HA'  BIBLB. 

Clilef  of  the  Household  Gods 

Which  hallow  Scotland's  lowly  cottage  homes  I 
While  looking  on  thy  signs, 

I'hat  speak,  though  dumb,  deep  thought  upon  me  cornea,— 
With  glad  yet  solemu  dreams  my  heart  is  stirred, 
Like  Childhood's  when  it  hears  the  carol  of  a  bird  I 

The  Mountains  old  and  hoar,— 

The  chalnless  Winds,— the  Streams  so  pure  and  tree,— 
The  (iod-enameled  nowers,— 

The  waving  forest,— the  eternal  Sea,— 
The  Eagle  floating  o'er  the  mountain's  brow,— 
Are  Teachers  all ;  but  oh !  they  are  not  such  as  thou  1 

O,  I  could  worship  thee  I 

Thou  art  a  gift  a  God  of  love  might  give ; 
For  Love  and  Hope  and  Joy 

In  thy  Almighty-written  pages  live!— 
The  Slave  who  reads  shall  never  crouch  again ; 
For,  mind-inspired  by  thee,  he  bursts  his  feeble  chain  t 

God  I  Tnto  Thee  I  kneel. 

And  thank  Thee  I  1  hou  unto  my  native  land- 
Yea,  to  the  outspread  Earth— 

Hast  stretched  in  love  Thy  Everlasting  hand. 
And  Thou  hast  given  Eart^  and  Sea  and  Air,— 
Yea,  all  that  heart  can  ask  of  Good  and  Pure  and  Fair  I 

And,  Father,  Thou  hast  spread 

Betore  men's  eyes  tlils  c'harter  of  the  Free, 
That  all  Thy  Book  might  read, 

And  Justice  love,  and  Truth  and  Liberty. 
The  Gift  was  unto  Men,— the  Giver  God  ! 
[Thou  Slavel  it  stamps  thee  Man,— go  spurn  thy  weary  load. 

Thou  doubly  precious  Book  ! 

Unto  thy  light  what  doth  not  Scotland  owe  ?— 
Thou  teachest  Age  to  die, 

And  Youth  In  Truth  unsullied  up  to  grow  I 
In  lowly  homes  a  Comforter  art  thou,— 
A  sunbeam  sent  from  God,— an  Everlasting  bow  I 

O'er  thy  broad  ample  page 

How  many  dim  and  aged  eyes  have  pored? 
Eow  many  hearts  o'er  thee 

In  silence  deep  and  holy  have  adored  7 
How  many  Mothers,  by  their  Infants'  bed 
Thy  Holy,  Blessed,  Pure,  Child-loving  words  have  read  I 


ROBEKT  KICOLL.  195 

And  o'er  tliee  soft  young:  hands 

Have  oft  in  truthful  plighted  Love  been  Joined. 
And  thou  to  wedded  hearts 

Hast  been  a  bond,~an  altar  of  the  mind  I— 
Above  all  kingly  power  or  kinglv  law 
May  Scotland  reverence  aye  the  Bible  of  the  Ha  Ml 


SARAH   MARGARET   FULLER. 


FEW  women  of  her  time  have  created  alivey.er  interest  through- 
out the  literary  world  than  Margaret  Fuller,  of  Boston,  iias 
done.  The  tragio  circumstances  connected  with  her  death, 
which  involved  at  the  same  time  the  destruction  of  her  husband  and 
child,  have  served  to  deepen  that  interest;  and  therefore  it  istliat 
the  memoirs  of  her  life  and  labors,  edited  by  Emerson  and  Ellery 
Channing,  havebeen  hailed  in  England  as  among  the  most  welcome 
books  which  have  coma  across  the  Atlantic  for  many  a  day. 

Margaret  Fuller  had  not  dono  much  as  a  writer;  but  she  had  given 
great  promise  of  what  she  could  do.  Her  "Woman  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,'*  and  a  collection  of  papers  on  Literature  and  Art, 
originally  published  in  the  American  periodical  called  '*The  Dial," 
with  the  book  entitled  **  A  Summer  on  the  Lakes,"  include  her 
principal  writings,  and  even  these  are  of  a  comparatively  frag- 
mentary character ;  it  was  chiefly  through  her  remarkable  gilts 
of  conversation  that  she  was  known  and  admired  among  her  con- 
temporaries; it  was  to  this  that  her  great  influence  among  them 
wag  attributable  ;  and,  like  John  Sterling,  Charles  Pemberton, 
and  others  of  kindred  gifts,  the  wonder  to  many  who  never  came 
within  the  reach  of  her  personal  influence  is  how  to  account  for  the 
literary  reputation  she  had  achieved,  upon  a  basement  of  writings 
80  slender  and  so  incomplete.  It  was  the  individual  influence,  the 
magnetic  attraction,  which  she  exercised  over  the  minds  witnin  her 
reach,  which  accounts  for  the  whole. 

From  early  years  Margaret  Fuller  was  regarded  as  a  kind  of  pro- 
digy. Her  father,  Mr.  Timothy  Fuller,  who  was  a  lawyer  and  a 
representative  of  Massachusetts  in  Congress,  from  1817  to  1825,  devo- 
ted great  pains  —far  too  great  pains — to  the  intellectual  culture  of 
the  little  girl.    Her  brain  was  unmercifully  taxed,  to  the  serious  In- 

196 


SAEAH  MAEGARET  FULLER.  197 

jury  of  her  health.  In  after-life  she  compared  herself  to  the  poor 
changeling,  who  turned  from  the  door  of  her  adopted  home,  sat 
down  on  a  stone,  and  so  pitied  herself  that  she  wept.  The  poor 
girl  was  kept  up  late  at  her  tasks,  and  went  to  bed  with  stimulated 
brain  and  nerves,  unable  to  sleep.  She  was  haunted  by  spectral 
illusions,  nightmares,  and  horrid  dreams;  while  by  day  she  suQered 
from  headaches,  weakness  and  nervous  affections  of  all  kinds.  In 
short,  Margaret  Fuller  had  no  natural  childhood.  Her  mind  did  not 
grow, — it  was  forced.  Thoughts  did  not  come  to  her, — they  were 
thrust  into  her.  A  child  should  expand  in  the  sun,  but  this  dear 
little  victim  was  put  under  a  glass  frame,  and  plied  with  all  manner 
of  artificial  heat.  She  was  fed,  not  on  "milk  for  babes,"  but  on  the 
strongest  of  meat. 

Thus  Margaret  Fuller  leaped  into  precocious  maturity.  She  was 
petted  and  praised  as  a  "prodigy."  She  lived  among  books. — read 
Latin  at  six  years  old,  and  was  early  familiar  with  Virgil,  Horace, 
and  Ovid,  Then  she  went  on  to  Greek.  At  eight  years  of  age  de- 
voured Shakespeare,  Cervantes,  and  Moliere  !  Her  world  was  books. 
A  child  without  toys,  without  romps,  without  laughter ;  but  with 
abundant  nightmare  and  sick-headaches  !  The  wonder  is,  that  this 
monstrously  unnatural  system  of  forced  intellectual  culture  did  not 
kill  outright!  "I. complained  of  my  head,"  she  said -afterwards; 
•*for  a  sense  of  dullness  and  suffocation,  if  not  pain,  was  there  con- 
stantly." She  had  nervous  fevers,  convulsions,  and  so  on;  but  she 
lived  through  it  all,  and  was  plunged  into  still  deeper  studies.  After 
a  course  of  boarding-school,  she  returned  home  at  fifteen  to  devote 
herself  to  Ariosto,  Helvetius,  Sismondi,  Brown's  Philosophy,  De 
Stael,  Epictetus,  Bacine,  Castilian  Ballads,  Locke,  Byron,  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple,  Rousseau,  and  a  host  of  other  learned  writers! 

Conceive  a  girl  of  fifteen  immersed  in  all  this  farrago  of  litera- 
ture and  philosophy  !  She  had  an  eye  to  politics,  too;  an  din  her 
letters  to  friends  notices  the  accession  of  Duke  Nicholas,  and  its  ef- 
fect on  the  Holy  Alliance  and  the  liberties  of  Europe  !  Thon  she 
goes  through  a  course  of  the  Italian  poets,  accompanied  by  her  sick- 
headache.  She  lies  in  bed  one  afternoon,  from  dinner  till  tea, 
•*  reading  Bammohun  Roy's  book,  and  framing  dialogues  aloud  on 
every  argument  beneath  the  sun."  She  had  her  dreams  of  the  af- 
fections, too,— indulging  largely  in  sentimentality  and  romance,  as 
most  young  girls  will  do.  She  adored  the  moon,— fell  in  love  with 
other  girls,  and  dreamed  often  the  other  subject  uppermost  in  most 
growing  girls*  minds. 

This  wonderfully  cultivated  child,  as  might  be  expected,  ran  some 
risk  of  being  spoiled.  She  was  herself  brilliant,  and  sought  eq^ual 
brilliancy  in  others.  She  had  no  patience  with  mediocrity,  and  re- 
garded it  with  feelings  akin  to  contempt.  But  this  unaniiable  feel- 
ing she  gradually  unlearned,  as  greater  experience  and  lar:[:jcr-heart- 
edness  taught  her  wisdom,— a  kind  of  wisdom,  by  the  way,  which 


198  BBIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

13  not  foTincl  in  books.  The  multitude  regarded  her,  at  this  time,  as 
rather  haughty  and  supercilious, — fond  of  saying  clever  and  sarcas- 
tic things  at  their  expense, — and  also  as  very  inquisitive  and  anxious 
to  "read  characters."  But  it  is  hard  to  repress  or  dwarf  the  loving 
nature  of  a  woman.  She  was  always  longing  for  affection,  for  sympa- 
thy, for  confidence,  among  her  more  valued  friends.  8he  wished  to  be 
•'comprehended,"— she  looked  on  herself  as  a  *'femme  incomprise," 
as  the  French  term  it.  Even  her  sarcasm  was  akin  to  love.  She  w\a8 
always  making  new  confidants,  and  drawing  out  their  heart-secrets, 
as  she  revealed  her  own. 

The  family  removed  from  Cambridgeport,  where  she  was  bom,  to 
Cambridge,  where  they  remained  till  1833,  when  they  went  to  reside 
at  Groton.  Margaret  had  by  this  time  written  verses  which  friends 
deemed  worthy  of  publication,  and  several  appeared.  But  her  spirit 
and  soul,  which  gave  such  living  power  to  her  conversation,  usually 
evaporated  in  the  attempt  to  commit  her  thoughts  to  writing.  Of 
this  she  often  complains.  "After  all,"  she  says  in  one  of  her  letters, 
**  this  writing  is  mighty  dead.  O  for  my  dear  old  Greeks,  who  tcULed 
everything  !  Again  she  said  :  "  Conversation  is  my  natural  element. 
I  need  to  be  called  out,  and  never  think  alone  without  imagining 
Bome  companion.  Whether  this  be  nature,  or  the  force  of  circun:)- 
stances,  I  know  not;  it  is  my  habit,  and  bespeaks  a  second  rate 
mind." 

But  she  was  a  splendid  talker;— a  New  England  Corinne, — an  im- 
provisatrice  of  unrivaled  powers.  Her  writings  give  no  idea  of  her 
powers  of  "speech, — of  the  brilliancy  with  which  she  would  strike  a 
vein  of  happy  thought,  and  bring  it  to  the  daylight.  ~  Her  talk  was 
decidedly  masculine,  critical,  common-sense,  full  of  ideas,  yet  withal, 
graceful  and  sparkling.  She  is  said  to  have  had  a  kind  of  prophetic 
insight  into  characters,  and  drew  out,  by  a  strong  attractive  power 
in  herself,  as  by  a  moral  magnet,  all  their  best  gifts  to  the  light. 
"She  was,"  says  one  friend,  "like  a  moral  Paganini :  she  played 
always  on  a  single  string,  drawing  from  each  its  peculiar  music, — 
bringing  wild  beauty  from  the  slender  wire  no  less  than  from  the 
deep-sounding  harpstring." 

In  1832  she  was  busy  with  German  literature,  and  read  Goethe, 
Tieck,  Korner,  and  Schiller.  The  thought  and  beauty  of  these  works 
filled  her  mind  and  fascinated  her  imagination.  She  also  went 
through  "Plato's  Dialogues.'*  She  began  to  have  infinite  longings  for 
something  unknown  and  unattainable,  and  gave  vent  to  her  feelings 
in  such  thoughts  as  this :  "1  shut  Goethe's  'Second  Residence  in 
Rome,'  with  an  earnest  desire  to  live  as  he  did,— always  to  have 
some  engrossing  object  of  pursuit.  I  sympathize  deeply  with  a 
mind  in  tiiat  state.  While  mine  is  being  used  up  by  ounces,  I  wish 
pailfals  might  be  poured  into  it.  lam  dejected  and  uneasy  when 
I  see  no  results  from  my  daily  existence,  but  I  am  suffocated  and 
lost  when  I  have  not  the' bright  feeling  of  progression." 


SAEAH  MARGARET  FULLER.  199 

But  slio  was  always  full  of  projects,  which  remained  such.  She 
meditated  writing  **  six  historical  tragedies,  the  plans  of  three  of  which 
are  quite  perfect."  She  had  also  "a  favorite  plan''  of  a  series  of  tales 
illustrative  of  Hebrew  history.  She  also  meditated  writing  a  life  of 
Goethe.  She  tried  her  hand  on  the  tragedies.  Alas  !  what  a  vast 
difference  is  there,  she  confesses,  between  conception  and  execution! 
She  proceeded,  as  Coleridge  calls  it,  **to  take  an  account  of  her 
stock,"  but  fell  back  again  almost  in  despair.  **With  me,"  she  says, 
"it  has  ended  in  the  most  humiliating  sense  of  poverty  ;  and  only 
just  enough  pride  is  left  to  keep  your  poor  friend  off  the  parish." 
But  in  this  confession  you  will  find  the  germs  of  deep  wisdom.  She 
now,  more  than  ever,  felt  the  need  of  self-culture.  ** Shall  I  ever  be 
fit  for  anything,"  she  asked,  **till  I  have  absalutely  re-educated  my- 
self? Am  I,  can  I  make  myself,  fit  to  write  an  account  of  half  a  cen- 
tury of  the  existence  of  one  of  the  master-spirits  of  this  world  ?  It 
seems  as  if  I  had  been  very  arrogant  to  dare  to  think  of  it."  She 
nevertheless  proceeded  to  accumulate  materials  for  the  life  of  Goethe, 
which,  however,  was  never  written. 

Yet  often  would  the  woman  come  uppermost  ?  She  longed  to 
possess  a  home  for  her  heart.  Capable  of  ardent  love,  her  affections 
were  thrown  back  upon  herself,  to  become  stagnant,  and  for  a  while 
to  grow  bitter  there.  She  could  not  help  feeling  how  empty  and 
worthless  were  all  the  attainments  and  triumphs  of  mere  intellect.  A 
woman's  heart  must  be  satisfied,  else  there  is  no  true,  deep  happiness 
of  repose  for  her.  She  longed  to  be  loved  as  a  woman^  rather  than  as 
a  mere  human  being.  What  woman  does  not?  The  lamentation 
that  she  was  not  so  loved  broke  out  bitterly  from  time  to  time.  She 
knew  that  she  was  not  beautiful;  and,  conceal  her  chagrin  as  she 
might,  she  felt  the  defect  keenly.  There  was  weakness  in  this,  but 
she  could  not  master  it. 

In  her  journal  is  a  bitter  sentence  on  this  topic,  the  meaning  of 
which  cannot  be  misunderstood.  She  is  commenting  on  the  character 
of  Mignon,  by  Goetho:  "Of  a  disposition  that  requires  the  most 
refined,  the  most  exalted  tenderness,  without  charms  to  inspire  it, 
poor  Mignon  !  fear  not  the  transition  through  death;  no  penal  fires 
can  have  in  store  worse  torments  than  thou  art  familiar  with  al- 
ready." Again  she  writes,  in  the  month  of  May:  "When  all  things 
are  blossoming,  it  seems  so  strange  not  to  blossom  too, — that  the 
quick  thought  within  cannot  remold  its  tenement.  Man  is  the 
slowest  aloe,  and  I  am  such  a  shabby  plant  of  coarse  tissue.  I  bate 
not  to  be  beautiful,  when  all  around  is  so."  She  writes  elsewhere: 
"  I  know  the  deep  yearnings  of  the  heart,  and  the  bafflings  of  time 
will  be  felt  again;  and  then  I  shall  long  for  some  dear  hand  to  hold. 
But  I  shall  never  forget  that  my  curse  is  nothing,  compared  with 
those  who  have  entered  into  these  relations,  but  not  made  them 
real ;  who  only  seem  husbands,  wives,  and  friends."  But  she 
endeavors  to  force  herself  to  feel  content:    "I  have  no  child;  but 


200  BHIEF  BI0aEjU?HIE3. 

now,  as  I  look  on  these  lovely  children  of  a  human  birth,  what  low 
and  neutralizing  cares  they  bring  with  them  to  the  mother !  The 
children  of  the  Sluse  come  quicker,  and  have  not  on  them  the  taint 
of  eartlily  corruption."  Alas  !  It  is  evidently  a  poor  attempt  at  self- 
comfort. 

Her  personal  appearance  may  be  noted.  A  florid  complexion, 
with  a  tendency  to  robustness,  of  which  sKe  was  painfully  conscious, 
and  endeavored  to  compress  by  artificial  methods,  which  did  addi- 
tional injury  to  her  alieady  wretched  health.  Eather  under  the 
middle  size,  with  fair  complexion,  and  strong,  fair  hair.  She  was 
near-sighted,  from  constant  reading  when  a  child,  and  peered  oddly, 
incessantly  opening  and  shutting  her  eyelids  with  great  rapidity. 
She  spoke  through  the  nose.  From  her  passionate  worship  of  Beau- 
ty in  all  things,  perhaps  she  dwelt  with  the  more  bitterness  on  her 
own  personal  short-comings.  The  first  impression  on  meeting  her 
was  not  agreeable;  but  continued  intercourse  made  many  fast  friends 
and  ardent  admirers, — that  is,  intellectual  admirers.  An  early  at- 
tack of  illness  destroyed  the  fineness  of  her  complexion.  ••  My  own 
vanity,"  she  said  of  this,  "was  severely  wounded;but  I  recovered, 
and  made  up  mind  to  be  bright  and  ugly.  I  think  I  may  say,  I 
never  loved.  I  but  see  my  possible  life  reflected  in  the  clouds.  The 
bridal  spirit  of  many  a  spirit,  when  first  it  was  wed,  I  have  shared, 
but  said  adieu  before  the  wine  was  poured  out  at  the  banquet." 

The  Fuller  family  removed  to  Groton  in  1833,  and  two  years  after 
Margaret's  father  died  suddenly  of  cholera.  He  left  no  will  behind 
him;  there  was  little  property  to  will, — only  enough  to  maintain  the 
widow  and  educate  the  children.  Margaret  was  thrown  into  fresh 
lamentations, — wished  she  had  been  a  man,  in  order  to  take  charge 
of  the  family ;  but  she  *'  always  hated  the  din  of  such  affairs."  About 
this  time  she  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Martineau,  then 
in  the  States,  and  clung  to  her  as  an  "intellectual  guide,"  hoping  to 
be  **  comprehended"  by  her.  She  had  strongly  desired  to  accom- 
pany Miss  Martineau  back  to  England,  but  the  sad  turn  in  the  fami- 
ly affairs  compelled  her  to  give  up  the  project;  and  she  went  to  Bos- 
ton instead,  to  teach  Latin,  Italian,  and  French,  in  Mr.  Alcott's 
school.  She  afterwards  went  to  teach,  as  principal,  in  another 
school  at  Providence.  She  still  read  tremendously, — almost  living 
upon  books,  and  tormented  by  a  "terrible  feeling  in  the  head." 
She  had  a  "distressing  weight  on  the  top  of  the  brain,"  and  seem- 
ingly was  "able  to  think  with  only  the  lower  part  of  the  head." 
"All  my  propensities,"  she  once  said  "  have  a  tendency  to  make  my 
head  worse;  it  is  a  bad  head, — as  bad  as  if  I  were  a  great  man." 

Amid  all  this  bodily  pain  and  disease,  she  suffered  moral  agony, 
— heartache  for  long  days  and  weeks, — and  on  self-examination, 
she  was  further  "  shocked  to  find  how  vague  and  superficial  is  all 
my  knowledge."  Some  may  say  there  is  a  degree  of  affectation  in  all 
this;  but  it  is  the  fate  of  the  over-cultivated,  without  any  solid  basia 


SAEAH  MARGARET  FULLER.  201 

of  wisdom ;  they  are  ever  longing  after  further  revelations,  greater 
light, — to  pry  into  the  unseen,  to  aim  after  the  unattainable.  Hence 
profound  regrets  and  life-long  lamentations.  The  circlet  which 
adorns  the  brow  of  genius,  though  it  may  glitter  before  the  gazer's  eye, 
has  spiked  thorns  for  the  brow  of  her  who  wears  it,  and  the  wounds 
they  make  bleed  inwards.    Poor  Margaret ! 

Emerson's  memoir  of  his  intercourse  with  Margaret  Fuller  is  by 
far  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  volume.  He  was  repelled  by 
her  at  first,  being  a  man  rather  given  to  silence;  but  she  gradually 
won  upon  him  as  upon  others,  and  her  bright  speech  at  length 
reached  his  heart.  He  met  her  first  in  the  society  of  Miss  Martineau, 
and  often  afterward  in  the  company  of  others,  and  alone.  He  was 
struck  by  the  night  side  of  her  nature; — her  speculations  in  my- 
thology and  demonology;  in  French  Socialism ;  her  belief  in  the 
ruling  influence  of  planets;  her  sympathy  with  sortilege;  her  no- 
tions as  to  the  taiismanic  influence  of  gems;  and  her  altogether 
mystic  apprehensions.  She  was  strangely  affected  by  dreams,  was 
a  somnambul^,  was  always  full  of  presentiments.  In  short,  as  Emer- 
son says,  "there  was  somewhat  alittlepagan  about  her."  She  found 
no  rest  for  the  sole  of  her  restless  foot,  except  in  music,  of  which 
she  was  a  passionate  lover.  Take  a  few  instances  of  her  strange 
meditations.  *•  When  first  I  met  with  the  name  Leila,"  she  said,  "  I 
knew  from  the  very  look  and  sound,  it  was  music;  I  knew  that  it 
meant  night, — night,  which  brings  out  stars  as  sorrow  brings  out 
truths."  Later  on,  she  wrote:  *'My  days  at  Milan  were  not  un- 
marked. 1  have  known  some  happy  hours,  but  they  all  lead  to  sor- 
row, and  not  only  the  cups  of  wine,  but  of  milk,  seem  drugged  with 
poison  for  me.  It  does  not  seem  to  be  my  fault,  this  destiny.  I  do 
not  court  these  things, — they  come.  I  am  a  poor  magnet,  with 
power  to  be  wounded  by  the  bodies  I  attract. 

But  Emerson,  like  everybody  else,  was  especially  attracted  by 
Margaret's  powers  of  conversation.  "She  wore  her  circle  of  friends, 
as  a  necklace  of  diamonds  about  her  neck.  The  confidences  given 
her  were  their  best,  and  she  held  to  them.  She  was  an  active,  in- 
spiring correspondent,  and  all  the  art,  the  thought,  and  the  noble- 
ness in  New  England  seemed  at  that  moment  related  to  her,  and 
she  to  it.  Persons  were  her  game,  especially  if  marked  by  fortune, 
or  character,  or  success;  to  such  was  she  sent.  She  addressed  them 
with  a  hardihood, — almost  a  haughty  assurance, — queen-like.  She 
drew  her  companions  to  surprising  confessions.  She  was  the  wed- 
ding-guest to  whom  the  long-pent  story  must  be  told  ;  and  they 
were  not  less  struck,  on  reflection,  at  the  suddenness  of  the  friend- 
ship which  had  established,  in  one  day,  new  and  permanent  cove- 
nants. She  extorted  the  secret  of  life,  which  cannot  be  told  without 
setting  mind  and  heart  in  aglow;  and  thus  had  the  best  of  those  she 
saw;  the  test  of  her  eloquence  was  its  range.  It  told  on  children 
and  on  old  people;  on  men  of  the  world,  and  on  sainted  maids. 


202  BKEEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

She  could  hold  them  all  by  the  honey  tongae.  The  Concord  stage- 
coachman  distinguished  her  by  his  respect;  and  the  chambermaid 
was  pretty  sure  to  confide  to  her,  on  the  second  day,  her  homely 
romance."  But  she  lived  fast.  In  society  she  was  alwaj^s  on  the 
stretch.  She  was  in  jubilant  spirits  in  the  morning  and  ended  the 
day  with  nervous  headache,  whose  spasms  produced  total  prostra- 
tion. She  was  the  victim  of  disease  and  pain.  *'  She  read  and 
wrote  in  bed,  and  believed  she  could  understand  anything  better 
when  she  was  ill.  Pain  acted  like  a  girdle,  to  give  tension  to  her  pow- 
ers." Her  enjoyment  consisted  of  brief  but  intense  moments.  The 
rest  was  a  void.  Emerson  says:  **  When  I  found  she  lived  at  a  rate 
BO  much  faster  than  mine,  and  which  was  violent  compared  with 
mine,  I  foreboded  a  rash  and  painful  crisis,  and  had  a  feeling  as  if  a 
voice  had  said.  Stand  from  under!  as  if,  a  little  farther  on,  this  destiny 
was  threatened  with  jars  and  reverses,  which  no  friendship  could 
avert  or  console." 

There  was  one  very  prominent  feature  in  Margaret  Fuller,  which 
she  could  never  conceal,  and  that  was  her  intense  individuality, — 
some  would  call  it  self-esteem :  she  was  always  thoroughly  possessed 
by  herself.  She  could  not  hide  the  "moiai^ainous  me,"  as  Emerson 
calls  it.  In  enumerating  the  merits  of  some  one,  she  would  say, 
"He  appreciates  me."  In  the  coolest  way,  she  boasted,  "I  now 
know  all  the  people  worth  knowing  in  America,  and  I  find  no  intel- 
lect comparable  to  my  own."  She  idealized  herself  as  a  queen,  and 
dwelt  upon  the  idea  that  she  was  not  her  parents'  child,  but  a  Euro- 
pean princess  confided  to  their  care.  **I  take  my  natural  position 
always,"  she  said  to  a  friend;  "and  the  more  I  see,  the  more  I  feel 
that  it  is  regal.  Without  throne,  scepter,  or  guards,  still  a  queen.'* 
In  all  this  there  was  exhibited  a  very  strong  leaning  towards  a  weak 
side. 

Yet,  at  other  times,  she  was  strongly  conscious  of  her  imperfec- 
tions. She  was  impatient  of  her  weakness  in  production.  "I  feel 
within  myself,"  she  said,  "an  immense  force,  but  I  cannot  bring  it 
out."  Notwithstanding  her  "arrogant  talk,"  as  Emerson  called  it, 
and  her  ambition  to  play  the  Mirabeau  among  her  friends,  she 
felt  her  defect  in  creative  power.  Her  numerous  works  remained 
projects.  She  was  the  victim  of  Lord  Bacon's  idols  of  the  cave.  She 
was  a  genius  of  impulse,  but  wanted  the  patience  to  elaborate. 
*'  How  can  I  ever  write,"  she  asked,  "with  this  impatience  of  detail? 
I  shall  never  be  an  artist;  I  have  no  patient  love  of  execution;  I  am 
delighted  with  my  sketch;  but  if  I  try  to  finish  it  I  am  chilled. 
Never  was  there  a  great  sculptor  who  did  not  love  to  chip  the.  mar- 
ble." And  then  she  attributed  her  inability  to  sex.  Speaking  of  the 
life  of  thought,  she  said:  '*W^omen,  under  any  circumstinces,  can 
scarce  do  more  than  dip  the  foot  in  this  broad  and  deep  river;  they 
have  not  strength  to  contend  with  the  current.  It  is  easy  for  women 
to  be  heroic  in  action ;  but  when  it  comes  to  interrogating  God,  the 


SAK AH  MARGARET  FULLER.  203 

universe,  the  sotil,  and,  above  all,  trying  to  live  above  their  own 
hearts,  they  dart  down  to  their  nest  like  so  many  larks,  and  if  they 
cannot  find  them,  fret  like  the  French  Corinne."  A  little  later  she 
says:  *'  I  shall  write  better,  but  never,  I  think,  so  well  as  I  talk;  for 
then  I  feel  inspired.  The  means  are  pleasant;  my  voice  excites  me, 
my  pen  never.     I  want  force  to  be  either  a  genius  or  a  character." 

She  had,  however,  a  genuine  fund  of  practical  benevolence  about 
her.  She  visited  the  prisons  and  penitentiaries  on  many  occasions, 
for  the  purpose  of  restoring  to  new  life  and  virtue  the  poor,  degraded 
women  confined  there.  Behind  all  her  wit,  there  was  always  a 
fountain  of  woman's  tears  ready  to  flow.  She  had  a  passionate  love' 
of  truth,  and  ardent  thirst  for  it.  "  In  the  chamber  of  death  I  pray- 
ed in  early  years,  *  Give  me  Truth;  cheat  me  by  no  illusion.*  O, 
the  granting  of  this  prayer  is  sometimes  terrible  to  me  !  I  walk  on 
the  burning  plowshares,  and  they  sear  my  feet.  Yet  nothing  but 
Truth  will  do."  And  she  might  be  said  almost  to  worship  beauty, — 
in  art,  in  literature,  in  music.  "Dear  Beauty!"  she  would  say, 
*'where,  where,  amid  these  morasses  and  pine-barrens,  shall  we  make 
thee  a  temple?  where  find  a  Greek  to  guard  it, — clear-eyed,  deep- 
thoughted,  and  delicate  enough  to  appreciate  the  relations  and  gra- 
dations which  nature  always  observes  ?  " 

We  can  only  notice  very  *^briefly  the  remaining  leading  events  in 
Margaret  Fuller's  life.  There  was  not  much  dramatic  character  in 
them,  except  towards  their  close.  The  student's  story  is  generally  a 
quiet  one  ;  it  is  an  afifair  of  private  life,  of  personal  intimacies  and 
friendships.  She  went  on  teaching  young  ladies,  conducting  con- 
versation-classes, and  occasionally  making  translations  from  the 
German  for  the  booksellers.  The  translation  of  Eckermann's  "Con- 
versations with  Goethe*'  was  by  her,  as  also  that  of  the  "  Letters  of 
Gunderode  and  Bettine."  In  1843  she  traveled  into  Michigan,  and  "^ 
shortly  afterwards  published  her  "Summer  on  the  Lakes."  She  then 
became  a  writer  for  "The  Dial,"  an  able  Boston  review,  chiefly  sup- 
ported by  Emerson,  Brownson,  and  a  few  more  of  the  "Transcend- 
ental writers  of  America.  There  she  reviewed  German  and  English 
books,  and  first  published  "The  Great  Lawsuit,  or  Woman  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century,"  an  eloquent  expression  of  discontent  at  the 
social  position  of  woman.  Her  criticisms  of  American  books  were 
not  relished  and  often  gave  great  offense.  The  other  critics  said  of 
her,  that  she  thought  thift  books,  like  brown  stout,  were  improved 
by  the  motion  of  a  ship,  and  that  she  would  praise  nothing  unless 
it  had  been  imported  from  abroad.  She  certainly  gave  a  less  hearty 
recognition  to  merit  in  American  than  in  German  or  English  books. 
Afterwards,  she  went  to  New  York,  to  perform  an  engagement  on 
Mr.  Horace  Greeley's  newspaper,  the  New  York  Tribune.  But  she 
had  a  contempt  for  newspaper  writing,  saying  of  it :  "  What  a  vul- 
garity there  seems  in  this  writing  for  the  multitude  !  We  know  not 
yet,  have  not  made  ourselves  known,  to  a  single  soul,  and  shall  we 
address  those  still  moro  unknown  ?  " 


204  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

The  deep  secret  of  her  heart  again  and  again  comes  uppermost  in 
her  communications  to  her  bosom  friends.  A  living  female  writer 
has  said,  that,  though  few  may  confess  it,  the  human  heart  may- 
know  peace,  content,  serene  endurance,  and  even  thankfulness  ;  but 
it  never  does  and  never  can  know  happiness,  the  sense  of  complete, 
full-rounded  bliss,  except  in  the  joy  of  a  happy  love.  The  most 
ardent  attachment  of  woman  for  others  of  their  own  sex  cannot  sup- 
ply the  want.  Margaret  Fuller  tried  this,  but  it  failed,  as  you  may 
see  from  her  repeated  complaints.  *'Pray  for  me,"  she  said,  '*that 
I  may  have  a  little  peace, — some  green  and  floweiy  spot  amid  which 
my  thoughts  mayresi;  yet  not  upon  fallacy,  but  upon  something 
genuine.  /  am  deeply  homesick^  yet  relieve  is  that  home  ?  If  not  on 
earth,  why  should  we  look  to  heaven  ?  I  would  fain  truly  live  wher- 
ever I  must  abide,  and  bear  with  full  energy  on  Hiy  lot,  whatever  it 
is.  Yet  my  hand  is  often  languid,  and  my  heart  is  slow.  I  would  be 
gone;  but  whither?  I  know  not.  If  I  cannot  make  this  spot  of 
ground  yield  the  corn  and  roses,  famine  must  be  my  lot  forever  and 
ever,  surely."  'lUis  is  the  dart  within  the  heart,  as  well  as  I  can  tell 
it :  **  At  moments  the  music  of  the  universe,  which  daily  I  am  up- 
held by  hearing,  seems  to  stop.  I  fall  like  a  bird  when  the  sun  is 
eclipsed,  not  looking  for  such  darkness.  The  sense  of  my  individ- 
ual law— that  lamp  of  life— flickers.  I  am  repelled  in  what  is  most 
natural  to  me.  I  feel  as,  when  a  suffering  child,  I  would  go  and  lie 
with  m}^  face  to  the  ground,  to  sob  away  my  little  life."  "Once  again 
I  am  willing  to  take  up  the  cross  of  loneliness,  llesolvos  are  idle,  but 
the  anjj^uish  of  my  soul  has  been  deep.  It  will  not  be  easy  to  pro- 
fane life  by  rhetoric."  In  a  pathetic  prayer,  found  among  her  pa- 
pers, she  says  :  •'  /  am  weary  at' thinlcinq,  I  suflfer  great  fatigue  from 
livinsf.  O  God,  take  me  !  Take  me  wholly.  It  is  not  that  I  repine, 
my  Father,  but  I  sink  from  want  of  rest,  and  none  will  shelter  me. 
Thou  knowest  it  all.     Bathe  me  in  the  living  waters  of  thy  love." 

Thus  the  consciousness  of  an  unfulfilled  destiny  hung  over  the 
poor  suflTerer,  and  she  could  not  escape  from  it ;  she  felt  as  if  des- 
tined to  tread  the  wine-press  of  life  alone.  To  hear  the  occasional 
plaintive  tone  of  sorrow  in  her  thought  and  speech,  Mr.  Channing 
beautifully  says,  was  '  like  the  wail  of  an  iEolian  harp,  heard  at  in- 
tervals from  some  upper  window."  And  amid  all  this  smothered 
agony  of  the  heart,  disease  was  constantly  preying  on  her.  Head- 
ache, rooted  in  one  spot, — fixed  between  the  eyebrows,-  till  it  grew 
real  torture.  The  black  and  white  guardians,  depicted  on  Etruscan 
monuments,  were  always  fighting  for  her  life.  In  the  midst  of 
beautiful  dreams,  the  "great  vulture  would  come,  and  fix  his  iron 
talons  on  the  brain," — a  state  of  physical  health  which  was  not 
mended  by  her  habit  of  drinking  strong  potations  of  tea  and  coffee 
in  almost  limitless  quantities. 

At  length,  in  search  of  health,  Margaret  resolved  to  accomplisli 
her  long-meditated,  darling  enterprise,  of  a  voyage  to  Europe;— to 


SAKAH  MATtGAIlET  FULLER.  205 

the  Old  T/orld,  where  her  thoughts  lived — to  England,  France, 
Germany,  and  Home.  She  left  New  York  in  the  summer  of  1846,  in 
the  Uambriay  and  on  reaching  England  sent  home  many  delightful, 
though  rapid,  sketches  of  the  people  she  had  seen,  and  the  places 
she  had  visited.  These  letters  are,  to  us,  the  most  delightful  part 
of  the  volumes;  perhaps  because  she  speaks  of  people  who  are  so 
much  better  known  to  us  than  her  American  contemporaries.  In 
England  and  Scotland,  she  saw  Wordsworth,  De  Quincey,  Dr.  Chal- 
mers, Andrew  Combe,  the  Howitts,  Dr.  Southwood  Smith,  and, 
above  all,  Carlyle,  of  whom  she  gives  an  admirable  sketch,  drawn  to 
the  life.  In  England,  also,  she  first  formed  an  acquaintance  with 
Mazzini,  which  she  afterwards  renewed,  amid  most  interesting 
circumstances,  at  Rome,  during  the  tumult  of  the  siege.  At  Paris 
she  made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  George  Sand,  of  whom  she 
gives  a  lifelike  description,  and  saw  many  other  notorieties  of  that 
time. 

But  she  longed  to  be  at  Rome ;  and  sped  southward.  She  seems  im- 
mediately to  have  plunged  into  the  political  life  of  the  city.  But 
her  means  were  cramped,  and  she  longed  for  a  little  money."  Yet 
what  she  had,  she  was  always  ready  to  give  away  to  those  who  were 
more  in  need  than  herself.  "Nothing  less  than  two  or  three  years," 
she  says,  *  free  from  care  and  forced  labor  would  heal  my  hurts, 
and  renew  my  life-blood  at  its  source.  Since  destiny  will  not  grant 
me  that  I  hope  she  will  not  leave  me  long  in  the  world,  for  I  am 
tired  of  keeping  myself  up  in  the  water  without  corks,  and  without 
strength  to  swim.  I  should  like  to  go  to  sleep  and  be  born  again 
into  a  state  where  my  young  life  should  not  be  prematurely  taxed.** 

All  the  great  events  of  1847  and  1848  occurred  while  Margaret 
Fuller  remained  in  the  Eternal  City.  She  was  there  when  the  Poj)e 
took  the  initiative  in  the  reforms  of  that  convulsed  period;  witnessed 
the  rejoicings  and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  people;  then  the  reaction, 
the  tumult,  the  insurrection,  and  the  war.  Amidst  all  this  excite- 
ment, she  is  **weary."  **The  shifting  scenes  entertain  poorly.  I 
want  some  scenes  of  natural  beauty;  and,  imperfect  as  love  is,  I  want 
human  beings  to  love,  as  I  suffocate  without."  Then  came  the  en- 
thusiastic entrance  of  Gioberti  into  Rome,  then  Mazzini,  then  en- 
sued the  fighting.  Margaret  looked  down  from  her  window  on  the 
terrible  battle  before  St.  Angelo,  between  the  Romans  and  the 
French.  Mazzini  found  her  out  of  her  lodgings,  and  had  her  ap- 
pointed by  the  **  Roman  Commisison  for  the  succor  of  the  Wounded" 
to  the  charge  of  the  hospital  of  the  Fata-Bene  Fratelli.  She  there 
busied  herself  as  a  nurse  of  those  heroic  wounded, — the  flower  of 
the  Italian  youth.  But  the  French  entered,  and  she  had  to  fly.  **I 
cannot  tell  you,"  she  writes,  '^what  I  endured  in  leaving  Rome; 
abandoning  the  wounded  soldiers ;  knowing  that  there  is  no  provision 
made  for  them,  when  they  rise  from  the  beds  where  they  have  been 
thrown  by  a  noble  courage,  where  they  have  suffered  with  a  noblo 


206  BRIEF  BIOGRAPHIES. 

patience.  Some  of  the  poorer  men,  who  rise  bereft  even  of  the 
right  arm, — and  one  having  lost  both  the  right  arm  and  the  right 
leg, — I  could  have  provided  for  with  a  Bmall  sum.  Could  I  have 
sold  my  hair,  or  blood  from  my  arm,  I  would  have  done  it.  These 
poor  men  are  left  helpless,  in  the  power  of  a  mean  and  vindictive 
foe.  You  felt  so  oppressed  in  the  slave  states  ;  imagine  what  I  felt 
at  seeing  all  the  noblest  youth,  all  the  genius  of  this  dear  land, 
again  enslaved." 

So  the  battle  was  lost !  Margaret  Fuller  fled  from  Rome  to  her 
child  at  Rieti.  Her  child?  yes.  She  had  married  !  The  dream  of  her 
life  had  ended,  and  she  was  now  a  wife  and  a  mother.  But  in  this 
sweet,  new  relationship,  she  enjoyed  but  a  brief  term  of  happiness. 
Her  connection  with  Count  Ossoli  arose  out  of  an  accidental  meeting 
with  him  in  the  church  of  St.  Peter's,  after  vesper  service.  He  wait- 
ed upon  her  to  her  dwelling;  returned;  cultivated  her  acquaintance; 
offered  her  his  hand,  and  was  refused.  But  Ossoli  was  a  Liberal, 
and  moved  in  the  midst  of  the  strife.  He  had  frequent  opportunities 
of  seeing  Margaret,  pressed  his  suit,  and  was  finally  accepted.  There 
did  not  seem  to  bo  much  in  common  between  them.  He  was  con- 
Kiderably  her  junior;  but  he  loved  her  sincerly,  and  that  was  enough 
for  her. 

The  marriage  was  kept  secret  for  a  time,  because  the  Marquis's 
property  might  have  gone  from  him  at  once,  had  his  marriage  with 
a  Protestant  become  known  while  the  ecclesiastical  influence  was 
paramount  at  Rome.  But  when  the  Liberal  cause  had  suS'ered  de- 
feat, there  was  no  longer  any  need  of  concealment.  Ossoli  had  lost 
all;  and  the  marriage  was.  confessed.  Margaret  had  left  her  child  in 
safety  at  Rieti,  to  watch  over  her  husband,  who  was  at  Rome,  en- 
gaged in  the  defense  of  the  city  against  the  French;  and  we  have 
seen  how  she  was  engaged  while  there.  She  returned  to  her  child, 
whom  she  found  ill,  and  half  starved;  but  her  maternal  care  made 
all  right  again.  Writing  to  her  mother,  she  said:  '*  The  immense 
gain  to  me  is  my  relation  with  the  child.  I  thought  the  mother's 
heart  lived  within  me  before,  but  it  did  not;  I  knew  nothing  about 
it."  **He  is  to  me  a  source  of  ineffable  joy, — far  purer,  deeper, 
than  anything  I  ever  felt  before, — like  what  Nature  had  sometimes 
given,  but  more  intimate,  more  sweet.  He  loves  me  very  much;  his 
little  heart  clings  to  mine." 

Margaret  is  at  length  happy;  but  how  brief  the  time  it  lasted ! 
The  poor  Marquis,  with  his  wife  and  child,  must  leave  Florence, 
where  they  for  a  brief  time  resided  after  their  flight  from  Rome;  and 
they  resolved  to  embark  for  the  United  States  in  May,  1850.  Writ- 
ing beforehand,  she  said:  *'I  have  a  vague  expectation  of  some  cri- 
sis,— I  know  not  what.  But  it  has  long  seemed  that  in  the  year  1850 
I  should  stand  on  a  plateau  in  the  ascent  of  life,  where  I  should  be 
allowed  to  pause  for  a  while,  and  take  more  clear  and  commanding 
views  than  ever  before.     Yet  my  life  proceeds  as  regularly  as  the 


SARAH  MARGAEET  FULLER.  207 

fates  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  and  I  can  but  accept  the  pages  as  they 
turn."  And  at  the  close  of  a  letter  to  her  mother,  she  said:  *'/hope 
"we  shall  be  able  to  pass  some  time  together  yet  in  this  world.  But 
if  God  decrees  otherwise, — here  and  hereafter,  my  dearest  mother, 
lam  your  loving  child,  Margaret."  Ossoli  had  never  been  at  sea 
before,  and  he  had  an  undefined  dread  of  it.  A  fortune-teller,  when 
he  was  a  boy,  had  uttered  a  singular  prophecy  of  him,  and  warned 
him  to  *•  beware  of  the  sea." 

The  omens  prove  true.  Everything  went  ainiss  on  the  ill-fated 
voyage.  The  captain  sickened  and  died  of  small-pox.  The  disease 
then  seized  the  child,  Angelino,  whose  life  was  long  despaired  of. 
But  he  recovered,  and  the  coast  of  America  drew  nigh.  On  the  eve 
of  the  landing,  a  heavy  gale  arose,  and  the  ship  struck  on  Fire  Island 
Beach,  on  the  Long  Island  shore. 

"At  the  first  jar,  the  passengers,  knowing  but  too  well  its  fatal 
import,  sprang  from  their  berths.  Then  came  the  cry  of  *  Cut  away,' 
followed  hj  the  crash  of  falling  timbers,  and  the  thunder  of  the 
seas,  as  they  broke  across  the  deck.  In  a  moment  more  the  cabin 
skylight  was  dashed  in  pieces  by  the  breakers,  and  the  spray,  pour- 
ing down  like  a  cataract,  put  out  the  lights;  while  the  cabin-door 
was  wrenched  from  its  fastenings,  and  the  waves  swept  in  and  out. 
One  scream— one  only — was  heard  from  Margaret's  state-room ;  and 
Sumner  and  Mrs.  Hasty,  meeting  in  the  cabin,  clasped  hands,  with 
these  few  but  touching  words:  *  We  must  die.'  *Let  us  die  calmly, 
then.'  *I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Hasty,*  It  was  in  the  gray  dusk,  and  amid 
the  awful  tumult,  that  the  companions  in  miaJfortune  met.  The  side 
of  the  cabin  to  the  leeward  had  already  settled  under  water;  and 
furniture,  trunks,  and  fragments  of  the  skylight  were  floating  to  and 
fro,  while  the  inclined  position  of  the  floor  made  it  difficult  to  stand; 
and  every  sea,  as  it  broke  over  the  bulwarks,  splashed  in  through 
the  open  roof.  The  windward  cabin-wall,  however,  still  yielding 
partial  shelter,  and  against  it,  seated  side  by  side,  half-leaning 
backwards,  with  feet  braced  upon  the  long  table,  they  awaited  what 
next  should  come.  At  first,  Nino,  alarmed  at  the  uproar,  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  rushing  water,  while  shivering  with  the  wet,  cried 
passionately;  but  soon  his  mother,  wrapping  him  in  such  garments 
as  were  at  hand,  and  folding  him  to  her  bosom,  sang  him  to  sleep. 
Celeste,  too,  was  in  an  agony  of  terror,  till  Ossoli,  with  soothing 
words,  and  a  long  and  fervent  prayer,  restored  her  to  self-control 
and  trust.  Then  calmly  they  rested,  side  by  side,  exchanging  kindly 
partings,  and  sending  messages  to  friends  ,  if  any  should  survive 
to  be  their  bearer." 

A  long  night  of  agony  passed,  and]  at  last  the  tragedy  drew  to  a 
close  : 

••  It  was  now  past  three  o'clock,  and  as,  with  the  rising  tide,  the 
gale  swelled  once  more  to  its  former  violence,  the  remnants  of  the 
bark  fast  yielded  to  the  resistless  waves.      The  cabin  went  by  the 


208  BRIEF  BIOGEAPHIEa 

board,  the  after-parts  broke  up,  and  the  stem  settled  out  of  sight 
Soon,  too,  the  forecastle  was  tilled  with  water,  and  the  helpless  little 
band  were  driven  to  the  decl^,  where  they  clustered  round  the  fore- 
mast. Presently,  even  this  frail  support  was  loosened  from  the 
hull,  and  rose  and  fell  with  every  billow.  It  was  plain  to  all  that 
the  final  moment  drew  swiftly  nigh.  Of  the  four  seamen  who  still 
Btood  by  the  passengers,  three  were  as  efficient  as  any  among  the 
crew  of  the  Llizaheth.  These  were  the  steward,  carpenter  and  cook. 
The  fourth  was  an  old  sailor,  v/ho,  broken  down  by  hardship  and 
sickness,  was  going  home  to  die.  These  men  were  once  again  per- 
suading Margaret,  Ossoli,  and  Celeste,  to  try  the  planks,  which  they 
still  held  ready  in  the  lee  ^of  the  ship  ;  and  the  steward  by  whom 
Nino  was  so  much  beloved,  had  just  taken  the  little  fellow  in  his 
arms,  with  the  pledge  that  he  would  save  him  or  die,  when  a  sea 
struck  the  forecastle,  and  the  foremast  fell,  carrying  with  it  the  deck 
and  all  upon  it.  The  steward  and  Angelino  were  washed  upon  the 
beach,  both  dead,  though  warm,  some  twenty  minutes  after.  The 
cook  and  carpenter  were  thrown  far  upon  the  foremast,  and  saved 
themselves  by  swimming.  Celeste  and  Ossoli  caught  for  a  moment 
by  the  rigging,  but  the  next  wave  swallowed  them  up.  Margaret 
sank  at  once.  When  last  seen,  she  had  been  seated  at  the  foot  of  the 
foremast,  still  clad  in  her  white  night-dress,  with  her  hair  fallen 
loose  upon  her  shoulders.  It  was  over, — that  twelve  hours*  com- 
munion, face  to  face,  with  death  !  It  was  over !  and  the  prayer  was 
granted,  *that  Ossoli,  Angelino,  and  I  may  go  together,  and  that 
the  anguish  may  be  bf  ief !  * 

•'The  only  one  of  Margaret's  [treasures  which  reached  the  shore 
was  the  lifeless  form  of  little  Angelino.  When  the  body,  stripped 
of  every  rag  by  the  waves,  was  rescued  from  the  surf,  a  sailor  took  it 
reverently  in  his  arms,  and,  wrapping  it  in  his  neckcloth,  bore  it  to 
the  nearest  house.  There,  when  washed,  and  dressed  in  a  child's 
frock  found  in  Margaret's  trunk,  it  was  laid  upon  a  bed  ;  and  as  the 
rescued  seamen  gathered  round  their  late  playfellow  and  pet,  there 
were  few  dry  eyes  in  the  circle.  The  next  day,  borne  upon  their 
shoulders  in  a  chest,  it  was  buried  in  a  hollow  among  the  sand-hills." 

And  thus  terribly  ended  the  tragedy  of  Margaret  Fuller's  life. 


SARAH   MARTIN. 


AMONG  the  distinguished  women  in  the  humble  ranks  of  so- 
ciety, who  have  pursued  a  loving,  hopeful,  benevolent,  and 
beautiful  way  through  life,  the  name  of  Sarah  Martin  will 
long  be  remembered.  Not  many  of  such  women  come  into  the 
full  light  of  the  world's  eye.  Quiet  and  silence  beiit  their  lot.  The 
best  of  their  labors  are  done  in  secret,  and  are  never  noised  abroad. 
Often  the  most  beautiful  traits  of  a  woman's  character  are  confided 
but  to  one  dear  breast,  and  lie  treasured  there.  There  are  compara- 
tively few  women  who  display  the  sparkling  brilliancy  of  a  Mar- 
garet Fuller,  and  whose  names  are  noised  abroad  like  hers  on  the 
wings  of  fame.  But  the  number  of  women  is  very  great  who  silently 
pursue  their  duty  in  thankfnlness,  who  labor  on, — each  in  their  lit- 
tle home  circle, — training  the  minds  of  growing  youth  for  active 
life,  molding  future  men  and  women  for  society  and  for  each  other, 
imbuing  them  with  right  principles,  impenetrating  their  hearts 
with  the  spirit  of  love,  and  thus  actively  helping  to  carry  forward 
the  whole  world  towards  good.  But  we  hear  comparatively  little  of 
the  labors  of  ti;ue-hearted  women  in  this  quiet  sphere.  The  genuine 
mother,  wife,  or  daughter  is  good,  but  not  famous.  And  she  can  dis- 
pense with  the  fame,  for  the  doing  of  the  good  is  its  own  exceeding 
great  reward. 

Very  few  women  step  beyond  the  boundaries  of  home  and  seek 
a  larger  sphere  of  usefulness.  Indeed,  the  home  is  sufficient  sphere 
for  the  woman  who  would  do  her  work  nobly  and  truly  there. 
Still,  there  are  the  helpless  to  be  helped,  and  when  generous  women 
have  been  found  among  the  helpers,  why  should  not  we  rejoice 
in  their  good  works,  and  cherish  their  memory?  Sarah  Martin 
was  one  of  such,— a  kind  of  Elizabeth  Fry,  in  a  humbler  sphere. 
She  was  born  at^Caister,  a  village  about  three  miles  from  Yarmouth,  in 
the  year  1791.  Both  her  parents,  jv'ho  were  very  poor  people,  died 
when  she  was  but  a  child;  and  the  little  orphan  was  left  to  bo 
brought  up  under  the  care  of  her  poor  grandmother.      The  girl  ob- 

209 


210  BEIEF  BIOGrwAPHIES. 

tained  such  education  as  the  village  school  could  afford. — which 
was  not  much, — and  then  she  was  sent  to  Yarmouth  for  a  year,  tQ 
learn  sewing  and  dressmaking  in  a  very  small  way.  She  afterwards 
used  to  walk  from  Caister  to  Yarmouth  and  back  again  daily,  which 
she  continued  for  many  years,  earning  a  slender  livelihood  by  go- 
ing out  to  famjlies  as  an  assistant  dressmaker  at  a  shilling  a  day. 

It  happened  that,  in  the  year  1819,  a  woman  was  committed  to  the 
Yarmouth  jail  for  the  unnatural  crime  of  cruelly  beating  and  ill- 
using  her  own  child.  Sarah  Martin  was  at  this  time  eight-and- 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  the  report  of  the  above  crime,  which  was 
the  subject  of  talk  about  the  town,  made  a  strong  impression  on 
her  mind.  She  had  often,  before  this,  on  passing  the  gloomy  walls 
of  the  borough  jail,  felt  an  urgent  desire  to  visit  the  inmates  pent 
up  there,  without  sympathy,  and  often  without  hope.  She  wished 
to  read  the  Scriptures  to  them,  and  bring  them  back  lovingly — were 
it  yet  possible — to  the  society  against  whose  laws  they  had  offended. 
Think  of  this  gentle,  unlovely,  ungifted,  poor  young  woman  taking 
up  with  such  an  idea  !  Y^et  it  took  in  her,  and  grew  within  her.  At 
length  she  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  visit  the  wretched  inmates 
of  the  Yarmouth  jail.  So  one  day  she  passed  into  the  dark  porch 
with  a  throbbing  heart,  and  knocked  for  admission.  The  keeper  of 
the  jail  appeared.  In  her  gentle  low  voice,  she  mentioned  the  cruel 
mother's  name,  and  asked  permission  to  see  her.  The  jailer  re- 
fused. There  was  "a  lion  in  the  way," — some  excuse  or  other,  as  is 
usual  in  such  cases.  But  Sarah  Martin  persisted.  She  returned; 
and  at  the  second  application  she  wa*  admitted. 

Sarah  Martin  afterwards  related  the  manner  of  her  reception  in  the 
jail.  The  culprit  mother  stood  before  her.  She  was  •*  surprised  at 
the  sight  of  a  stranger."  **V/hen  I  told  her,"  says  Sarah  Martin, 
*'  the  motive  of  my  visit,  her  guilt,  her  need  of  God's  mercy,  etc.,  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  thanked  me!'*  Those  tears  and  thanks  shaped  the 
whole  course  of  Sarah  Martin's  subsequent  life. 

A  year  or  two  before  this  time  Mrs.  Fry  had  visited  the  prisoners 
in  Newgate,  and  possibly  the  rumor  of  her  labors  in  this  field  may 
have  in  some  measure  influenced  Sarah  Martin's  mind  ;  but  of  tliis 
we  are  not  certain.  Sarah  Martin  herself  stated  that,  as  early  as  the 
year  1810  (several  years  before  Mrs.  Fry's  visit  to  Newgate),  her  mind 
had  been  turned  to  the  subject  of  prison  visitation,  and  she  had 
then  felt  a  strong  desire  to  visit  the  poor  prisoners  in  Yarmouth  jail, 
to  read  the  Scriptures  to  them.  These  two  tender-hearted  women 
may,  therefore,  have  been  working  at  tife  same  time,  in  the  same 
sphere  of  Christian  work,  entirely  unconscious  of  each  other's 
labors.  However  this  may  be,  the  merit  of  Sarah  Martin  can- 
not be  detracted  from.  She  labored  alone,  without  any  aid  from 
influential  quarters:  she  had  no  persuasive  eloquence,  and  had 
scarcely  received  any  education;  she  was  a  poor  seamstress,  main- 
taining herself  by  her  needle,  and    carried  on  her  visitation  of 


i 


SAKAH  MARTIN.  211 


,  the  prisoners  in  secret,  without  any  one  vaunting  her  praises  :  in- 
deed, this  was  the  last  thing  she  dreamed  of.  Is  there  not,  in  this 
simple  picture  of  a  humble  woman  thus  devoting  her  leisure  hours 
to  the  comfort  and  improvement  of  outcasts,  much  that  is  truly  noble 
and  heroic  ? 

Sarah  Martin  continued  her  visits  to  the  Yarmouth*  jail.  From 
one  she  went  to  another  prisoner,  reading  to  them  and  conversing 
with  them,  from  which-  siEie  went  on'to  instructing  them  in  reading 
and  writing.  She  constituted  herself  a  schoolmistress  for  the  crim- 
inals, giving  up  a  day  in  the  week  for  this  purpose,  and  thus  trench- 
ing on  her  slender  means  of  living.  *'  I  thought  it  right,"  she  says, 
*Ho  give  up  a  day  in  the  week  from  dressmaking  to  serve  the  loris- 
oners.  This  regularly  given,  with  many  an  additional  one,  was  not 
felt  as  a  pecuniary  loss,  but  was  ever  followed  with  abundant  sat- 
isfaction, for  the  blessing  of  God  \^  as  upon  me." 

She  next  formed  a  Sunday  service  in  the  jail,  for  reading  of  the 
Scriptures,  joining  in  the  worship  as  a  hearer.  For  three  years  she 
went  on  in  this  quiet  course  of  visitation,  until,  as  her  views  enlarged, 
she  introduced  other  ameliorative  plans  for  the  benefit  of  the  prison- 
ers. One  week,  in  1823,  she  received  from  two  gentlemen  dona- 
tions of  ten  shillings  each  for  prison  charity.  With  this  she  bought 
materials  for  baby-clothes,  cut  them  out,  and  set  the  females  to  work. 
The  work,  when  sold,  enabled  her  to  buy  other  materials  and  thus 
the  industrial  education  of  the  prisoners  was  secured  ;  Sarah  Mar- 
tin teaching  those  to  sew  and  knit  who  had  not  before  learned  to  do 
so.  The  profits  derived  from  tlie  sale  of  the  articles  were  placed 
together  in  a  fund,  and  divided  amongst  the  prisoners  on  their  leav- 
ing the  jail  to  coram ence  life  again  in  the  outer  world.  She,  in  the 
same  way,  taught  the  men  to  make  straw  hats,  men's  and  boys' caps, 
groy  cotton  shirts,  and  even  patchwork, — anything  to  keep  them 
out  of  idleness,  and  from  preying  upon  their  own  thoughts.  Some 
also  she  taught  to  copy  little  pictures,  with  the  same  object,  in 
which  several  of  the  prisoners  took  great  delight.  A  little  later  on, 
she  formed  a  fund  out  of  the  prisoners'  earnings,  which  she  applied  to 
the  furnishing  of  work  to  prisoners  upon  their  discharge;  "affording 
me,"  she  says,  "the  advantage  of  observing  their  conduct  at  the 
same  time." 

Thus  did  humble  Sarah  Martin,  long  before  the  attention  of  pub- 
lic men  had  been  directed  to  the  subject  of  prison  discipline,  bring 
a  complete  sj^stem  to  maturity  in  the  jail  of  Yarmouth.  It  will  be 
observed  that  she  had  thus  included  visitation,  moral  and  religious 
instruction,  intellectual  culture,  industrial  training,  employment 
during  prison  hours,  and  employment  after  discharge.  While 
learned  men  at  a  distance,  were  philosophically  discussing  these 
knotty  points,  here  was  a  poor  seamstress  at  Yarmouth,  who  in  a 
quiet,  simple  and  unostentatious  manner  had  practically  settled 
^em  all !     ^^' 


212  BEIEF  BIOGKAPHIES. 

In  1826  Sarah  Martin's  grandmother  died,  and  left  her  an  annual 
income  often  or  twelve  pounds.  She  now  removed  from  Caister  to 
Yarmouth,  where  she  occupied  two  rooms  in  an  obscure  part  of  the 
town;  and  from  that  time  devoted  herself  with  increased  energy  to 
her  philanthropic  labors  in  the  jail.  A  benevolent  lady  in  Yarmouth, 
in  order  to  allow  her  some  rest  from  her  sewing,  gave  her  one  day  in 
the  week  to  herself,  by  paying  her  the  same  on  that  day  as  if  she  had 
been  engaged  in  dressmaking.  "With  that  assistance,  and  a  few 
quarterly  subscriptions  of  two  shillings  and  sixpence  each,  for  Bibles, 
Testaments,  tracts,  and  books  for  distribution,  she  went  on,  devot- 
ing every  available  moment  of  her  life  to  her  great  purpose.  But 
her  dressmaking  business—  always  a  very  fickle  trade,  and  at  best  a 
yery  poor  one  —now  began  to  fall  off,  and  at  length  almost  entirely 
disappeared.  The  question  arose,  Was  she  to  suspend  her  benevo- 
lent labors,  in  order  to  devote  herself  singly  to  the  recovery  of  her 
business  ?  She  never  wavered  for  a  moment  in  her  decision.  In 
her  own  words,  **  I  had  counted  the  cost,  and  my  mind  was  made 
np.  If,  whilst  imparting  truth  to  others,  I  became  exposed  to  tem- 
poral want,  the  privation  so  momentary  to  an  individual  would  not 
admit  of  comparison  with  following  the  Lord,  in  thus  administer- 
ing to  others."  Therefore  did  this  noble,  self-sacrificing  woman  go 
straightforward  on  her  road  of  persevering  usefulness. 

She  now  devoted  six  or  seven  hours  in  every  day  to  her  superin- 
tendence over  the  prisoners,  converting  what  would  otlierwise  have 
been  a  scene  of  dissolute  idleness  into  a  hive  of  industry  and  order. 
Newly-admitted  prisoners  were  sotnetimes  refractory  and  unman- 
ageable, an  1  refused  to  take  advantage  of  Sarah  Martin's  instructions. 
But  her  persistent  gentleness  invariably  won  their  acquiescence, 
and  they  would  come  to  her  and  beg  to  be  allowed  to  take  their  part 
in  the  general  course.  Men  old  in  years  and  in  crime,  pert  London 
pickpockets,  depraved  boys,  and  dissolute  sailors,  profligate  women, 
smugglers,  poachers,  the  promiscuous  horde  of  criminals  which 
usually  fill  the  jail  of  a  seaport  and  county  town, — all  bent  them- 
selves before  the  benign  influence  of  this  good  woman;  and  under 
her  eyes  they  might  be  seen  striving,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives, 
to  hold  a  pen,  or  master  the  characters  in  a  penny  primer.  She  en- 
tered into  their  confidences,  watched,  wept,  prayed,  and  felt  for  all 
by  turns;  she  strengthened  their  good  resolutions,  encouraged  the 
hopeless,  and  sedulously  endeavored  to  put  all,  and  hold  all,  in  the 
right  road  to  amendment. 

What  was  the  nature  of  the  religious  instruction  given  by  her  to 
the  prisoners  may  be  gathered  from  Captain  Williams's  account  of 
it,  as  given  in  the  "Second  Eeport  of  the  Inspector  of  Prisons"  for 
the  year  1836: 

"Sunday,  November  29,  1835. — Attended  divine  service  in  the 
morning  at  the  prison.  The  male  prisoners  only  were  assembled. 
A  female  resident  in  town  officiated ;  her  voice  was  exceedingly  me- 


SARAH  MARTIN.  213 

lodious,  her  delivery  emphatic,  and  her  enunciation  extremely  dis- 
tinct. The  service  was  the  Liturgy  of  the  Church  of  England;  two 
Psalms  were  sung  by  the  whole  of  the  prisoners,  and  extremely  well, 
— much  better  than  I  have  frequently  heard  in  our  best-appointed 
churches.  A  written  discourse,  of  her  own  composition,  waa  read 
by  her;  it  was  of  a  jDurely  moral  tendency,  involving  no  doctrinal 
points,  and  admirably  suited  to  the  hearers.  During  the  perforni- 
auce  of  the  service,  the  prisoners  paid  the  profoundest  attention  and 
the  most  marked  respect;  and,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to  judge,  ap- 
peared to  take  a  devout  interest.  Evening  service  was  read  by  her, 
afterwards,  to  the  female  prisoners." 

Afterwards,  in  1837,  she  gave  up  the  labor  of  writing  out  her  ad- 
dresses, and  addressed  the  prisoners  extemporaneously,  in  a  simple, 
feeling  manner,  on  the  duties  of  life,  on  the  connection  between 
sin  and  sorrow  on  the  one  hand,  and  between  goodness  and  happi- 
ness on  the  other,  and  inviting  her  fallen  auditors  to  enter  the 
great  door  of  mercy  which  was  ever  wide  open  to  receive  them. 
These  simple  but  earnest  addresses  were  attended,  it  is  said,  by  very 
beneficial  results;  and  many  of  the  prisoners  were  wont  to  thank 
her,  with  tears,  for  the  now  views  of  life,  its  duties  and  responsibili- 
ties, which  she  had  opened  up  to  them.  As  a  writer  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  has  observed,  in  commenting  on  Sarah  Martin's  jail 
sermons:  "The  cold,  labored  eloquence  which  boy-bachelors  are 
authorized  by  custom  and  constituted  authority  to  inflict  upon  us; 
the  dry  husks  and  chips  of  divinity  which  they  bring  forth  from 
the  dark  recesses  of  the  theology  (as  it  called)  of  the  fathers,  or  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  sink  into  utter  worthlessness  by  the  side  of  the 
jail  addresses  of  this  poor,  uneducated  seamstress." 

But  Sarah  Martin  was  not  satisfied  merely  with  laboring  among 
the  prisoners  in  the  jail  at  Yarmouth,  She  also  attended  in  the 
evenings  at  the  workhouse,  where  she  formed  and  superintended  a 
large  school*  and  afterward,  when  that  school  had  boen  handed  over 
to  proper  teachers,  she  devoted  the  hours  so  released  to  the  forma- 
tion and  superintendence  of  a  school  for  factory-girls,  which  was 
held  in  the  capacious  chancel  of  the  old  Church  of  5St.  Nicholas, 
And  after  the  labors  connected  with  the  class  were  over,  she  would 
remain  among  the  girls  for  the  purpose  of  friendly  intercourse  with 
them,  which  was  often  worth  more  than  all  the  class  lessons. 
There  were  personal  communications  with  this  one  and  with  that, 
private  advice  to  one,  some  kindly  inquiry  to  make  of  another,  some 
domestic  history  to  be  imparted  by  a  third;  for  she  was  looked  up 
to  by  these  girls  as  a  counselor  and  friend,  as  well  as  schoolmis- 
tress. She  had  often  visits  also  to  pay  to  their  homes;  in  one  there 
would  be  sickness,  in  another  misfortune  or  bereavement;  and  every- 
where was  the  good,  benevolent  creature  made  welcome.  Then, 
lastly,  she  would  return  to  her  own  poor,  solitary  apartments  late 
at  night,  after  her  long  day's  labor  of  love.     There  was  no  cheerful, 


214  BRIEF  BIOGRAPEIES. 

ready-lit  fire  to  greet  her  there,  but  only  an  empty,  locked-np  house, 
to  which  sho  merely  returned  to  sleep.  She  did  all  her  own  work, 
kindled  her  own  fires,  made  her  own  bed,  cooked  her  own  meals. 
F(ir  she  went  on  living  upon  her  miserable  pittance  in  a  state  of 
almost  absolute  poverty,  and  yet  of  total  ujiconcern  as  to  her  tem- 
poral support.  Friends  supplied  her  occasionally  with  the  neces- 
saries of  life,  but  she  usually  gave  away  a  considerable  portion  of 
these  to  people  more  destitute  than  herself. 

She  was  now  growing  old;  and  the  borough  authorities  at  Yar- 
mouth, who  knew  very  well  that  her  self-imposed  labors  saved 
them  the  expense  of  a  schoolmaster  and  chaplain  (which  they  were 
now  bound  by  law  to  appoint)  made  a  proposal  of  an  annual  salary 
of  £12  a  year !  This  miserable  renumeration  was,  moreover,  made 
in  a  manner  coarsely  ofi'ensive  to  the  shrinkingly  sensitive  woman ;  for 
she  had  preserved  a  delicacy  and  pure-mindedness  throughout  her 
life-long  labors  which,  very  probabl3%  these  Yarmouth  bloatera 
could  not  comprehend.  She  shrank  from  becoming  the  salaried 
official  of  the  corpomtion,  and  bartering  for  money  those  labors 
which  had  throughout  boen  labors  of  love. 

**Hero  lies  the  objection,"  she  sairl,  "which  oppresses  me:  I 
have  found  voluntary  instruction,  on  my  part,  to  have  been  attended 
with  great  advantage;  and  I  am  apprehensive  that,  in  receiving 
payment,  my  labors  may  be  less  acceptable.  I  fear,  also,  that  my 
mind  would  be  fettered  hy  pecuniary  payment,  and  the  whole  work 
upset.  To  try  the  experiment,  which  might  injure  the  thing  I  live 
and  breathe  for,  seems  like  applying  a  knife  to  your  child's  throat 

to  know  if  it  will  cut Were  you  so  angry,"  she  is  writing  in 

answer  to  the  wife  of  one  of  the  magistrates,  who  said  she  and  her 
husband  would  "feel  anp^ry  and  hurt*'  if  Sarah  Martin  did  not  ac- 
cept the  proposal,  —  "were  you  so  angry  as  that  I  could  not  meet  you, 
a  merciful  God  and  a  good  conscience  would  preserve  my  peace; 
when,  if  I  ventured  on  what  I  believed  would  be  prejudicial  to  the 
prisoners,  God  would  frown  upon  me,  and  my  conscience  too,  and 
these  would  follow  me  everywhere.  As  for  my  circumstances,  I 
have  not  a  wish  ungratified,  and  am  more  than  content." 

But  the  jail  committee  savagely  intimated  to  the  high-sonled 
woman:  *'If  we  permit  you  to  visit  the  j^rison,  you  must  submit  to 
our  terms  ;"  so  she  had  no  alternative  but  to  give  up  her  noble  la! 
bors  altogether,  which  she  would  not  do,  or  receive  the  miserable 
pittance  of  a  **  salary"  w^hich  they  proffered  her.  And  for  two  more 
years  she  lived  on,  in  the  receipt  of  her  official  salary  of  £12  per 
annum, — the  acknowledgment  of  the  Yarmouth  Corporation  for  her 
services  as  jail  chaplain  and  schoolmaster  ! 

In  the  winter  of  1842,  when  she  had  reached  her  fifty-second  year, 
her  health  began  seriously  to  fail,  but  she  nevei-theless  continued 
her  daily  visits  to  the  jail, — "the  home."  she  says,  *'  of  my  first  in- 
terest and  pleasure," — until  the  171^  of  Apsil,  1343,  when  she  ceased 


SARAH  MARTIN.  216 

her  visits.  She  was  now  thoroughly  disabled;  but  her  mind  beam- 
ed out  with  unusual  brilliancy,  like  the  flickering  taper  before  it 
finally  expires.  She  resumed  the  exercise  of  a  talent  which  she  had 
occasionally  practiced  during  her  few  moments  of  leisure, — that  of  , 
writing  sacred  poetry.  In  one  of  these,  speaking  of  herself  on  her 
sick-bed,  she  says: — 

I  seemed  to  lie 

So  near  the  heavenly  portals  bright, 

I  catch  the  streaming  rays  that  fly 

From  eternity  s  own  light. 

Her  song  was  always  full  of  praise  and  gratitude.  As  artistic 
creations,  they  may  not  excite  admiration  in  this  highly  critical  age; 
but  never  were  verses  written  truer  In  spirit,  or  fuller  of  Christian 
love.  Her  whole  life  was  a  noble  poem, — full  also  of  true  practical 
wisdom.     Her  life  was  a  glorious  comment  upon  her  own  words: 

The  high  desire  that  others  may  be  blest 
Savors  of  Heaven. 

She  struggled  against  fatal  disease  for  many  months,  suflfering 
great  agony,  which  was  partially  relieved  by  opiates.  Her  end  drew 
nigh.  She  asked  her  nurse  for  an  opiate  to  still  her  racking  torture. 
The  nurse  told  her  that  she  thought  the  time  of  her  departure  had 
come.  Clasping  her  hands,  the  dying  Sister  of  Mercy  exclaimed, 
"Thank  God  !  thank  God ! "  And  these  were  her  last  words.  She 
died  on  the  15th  of  October,  1843,  and  was  buried  at  Caister,  by  the 
side  of  her  grandmother.  A  small  tombstone,  bearing  a  simple  in- 
scription written  by  herself,  marks  her  resting-place;  and,  though 
the  tablet  is  silent  as  to  her  virtues,  they  will  not  be  forgotten: 

Only  the  actions  of  the  just 

Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  In  the  dust. 


THB  END. 


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